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C i , 

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OR ' 










Ajptbtr of ta English Grammar, kc ft*. 






Miv«n emtii uMunp 

.•111 Of tHC 

MY 11 ttif 



MANY MltoritM of «imIIcbI ■Mttar ksv* bMn Msdt Ibr fUm 
bmeAt of yomff pcnoM. PerAMnanoef of tUt klod aro of 
so jpreot H^ty, that imh prodnctioot of them, and new tMtmpm 
to uaprofe tlio yovni^ anindy will icwrceljr bo deemed tqperfliMiiSi 
if the writer oMfce his compOotioii instmctiTe end intsrostinf i «M 
•oiEkientij distinct from others. 

Xbft present work, as the title expresses, ahns at the attainmeat 
of three objects : to improve jf outh in the art of reading ; to amli- 
omte their iangaa|pe aod lentunents ; and to incnlcata soam of tha 
most important pnnciples of pietj and Tirtne. 

The pi««es leiected, not onty give exercise to agreat Tariatr of 
emotions, and the correspondent tones and ▼ariatimis of roicei mil 
contain sentences and atembers of lenteilteesy which are diveismedl 
proportioned, and pointed with accuracr. Exercises of this na- 
ture are, it is presnmed» well calculateci to teach youth to read 
with propriety and elfect. A selection of sentenoei, in which Tari- 
ety aud proportion^ with exact ponctnation, have been careAilly 
observed, in all their partt as well as with respect to one anothery 
wiU probalrfy have a mnch grealer eAett in properly teaching tha 
art «»f reading, than is commonly inwgined. In soch constnictioos 
mrery thing m aocoomodated to the vnderstaading and the voice | 
and the conmmn diAcnltiM in leaning to read well are obviated. 
When the learner has acquired a habit of reading such s e nt e nce s i 
with jnstnem and facUity, he will readily apply that habit, and the 
improvements he has made, to s entences more complicated and 
iriwgular, and of a constmctaon entirely dilierent. 

l%e laagnage of the piecw chosen for this collection has been 
carefully rwarded. Purity^ propriety, penpicuity, and, ia ssany 
instances, nenmce of diction, distinguish them. They are ex 
traded from ue works of the most correct and elegant writers. 
From the sources whence the sentiments are drawn, the reader 
may expect to find them connected and regular, surociently im- 
portant and imjiremive, and divested of every thing that is either 
orlte or eccentric. The frecpient perusal of such oooiposition nat- 
araUy tends to inlnse a taste for tnis species of excefcoce ; aod to 
produce a habit of thinking, and of composing, with judgment and 

That this collection mmy also serve the purpose of promoting 
piety and virtue, the Compiler has introduced many extra4:ts, which 

* Th« IcanMf, In his pragimi throoffh this vohme aad tb« Bcqrisl «> H, wM 

'In fiikt eoalbmiit/ to dw iidas 

with nnnMroes iMtanc« of con^otllion. 
Car pTDmoting penplcnoot and dMBOt writing eontnin«d In tbn'j^ipcBdlc to 

the Aiitbor't Snf^ljh Granunnr. By onaAtmSfy emminiog thk eonfornhy, 
he will be conflrmnl In Um atlUljr oilhoie Aiws} nnd becanbted toafVty ' 
with enae and dexteritj. 

4^ , ,^ PBEFACK 

piMt rdi^o in the moit ai^miile light ; and which noammciid * 
$re^ TAritij^f moral dudes, by die excellence of their nature, 
and the happv effects they produce. These subjects are cxhibttea 
in a style ma mauner wnich are calculated t6 arrest the attentioii 
of youth ; and to inakestrtfng> and daraUa impressions on tbair 

The Cot|ipiler has been careful to aroid- every expression and 
aentfanenii tnat might gratifr a corrupt mind^ or, in the least dc* 
ipree, offend the eye or ear or innocence. This he concerres to ba 
peemarly incumbent oa every person who writes for the btaefit 
of youth. It would indeed be a sreat and happy improvement in 
education, if no writings were allowed to come under their notice t 
but such as are perfectly innocent ; and if on all proper occasional 
ihey were encouraged to peruse those which tend to inspire a due^ 
feverenee for virtue, and an abhorrence of vice, as well as to ani*^ 
mate them with'Sentiments of piety and goodness. Such impres- 
sions deeply engraven on their miiids, and connected with all their 
attainments, could scarcely fail of attending them through life, 
and of producing a solidity bf principle and character, that would 
be able to resist the danger arising from future intercourse with 
the world. 

The Author hat endeavoured to relieiw the grave and senom 
parts offals collection, by the occasional admisdlon of pieces wt 
amuse as well as instruct. If, liowever, an^ of his readers snou^l 
think it contains too great a proportion ol the former, it muy 
some apology to observe^that in the existing publications desiga 
cd for the perusal of yomag persons, the (M^^onderanee ia gresilf 
on the side of gay and anwsing' productions. Too much atteit^ 
tion ma^ be paid to this medium of in^irovement. When tha 
imagination, of youth especially, is much entertained, the sober dic- 
tates of the undarstanding are regarded mih indifference ; and 
the influence of good affections ^ either feeble, or transient. A 
temperate use of such eniertainment seems tiierefore requisilei 
to afford proper scope for the operationa of the understanding ana 
the heart. 

The reader will perceive, that the Compiler has been solicitous 
to recommend to young persons, the perusal of the sacred Scrii»* 
tnres, b^ interspersing through his work some of the most beauti 
Ihl and mterestmg passages of those invaluable writings. To ex* 
cite an early taste and veneration for this great rule of life, is a 

Koint of so high importance, as to warrant Uie attempt to promote 
: on every proper occasion. 
To improve the young mind, and to afford some assistance to 
tutors, in the arduous and important work of education, were the 
motives which led to this production. If the Author should be so 
successful as to accomplish these ends, eVen in a small degree, ha 
wiU think that his time and pains have been well employed, and 
will deem himself amply rewarded. 

* In MOMff the pieces, the Compiler hat made a Ctw alUratioiM, chiefly irer 
islite •(k>ft tiMm the tieaerto the design of his worh. 




TOfttdwilh j i Ki pi l i lj it • p l e Mitiy mmI iportaK iHrfwwt } 

orimprofWMaiboditotkaaBdinlMdIimaadllMlMUt. Uln 
a eonidcte raiid«,1fei«ke nlmit|jpif«8i«w tlw UaM, iMl Mrtar iMothafttW 
iiieiortlM«aciior,whoM amikmmu htpmfnmwnpm^t far horn hhvo^ 

tkMit of onwlvMf If tlMra ««r» ao «cbtv b ttili nwklif fivm th* Ml «f 
HwUm wn, Omn tlw atMnHy it kyi m ■niw, <f pwcMy imiiMnf th> 
aMaingorwkatw*f«id|«MlttelMMtthMMMq«lrad,ardoliifaiii wkk 
fccmiy, boch wfc— rwdif ■ll g «< ly m t A rt w i i|tfc « y iwld cptlHl* » i rf i i l Mt 
■wmpwntmwi fcraii ^ IrtcTWc— hmttm apwttowltfiali Itattteplt*- 
«— diriwd to m um Um mad qtlww, frw > cl««r r nw i i t f ■ tfcw of U«t m4 
Acliagt;aad tlio itwiiy wrf dfoM^ ii i ifwwi w M modo llMKfagr ootho trimU 
of tiM raodar OBd tbo midteBoe» ore coaddofatioM, widek givo od rtitto — l Im. 
pofffiHW totho tlndy of tto aocowiy and wcfai art. Tbo porliKt otlaiaowat 
of it do a h t i oM wgalw grot attoatfcm aad practlcojoiaed to attraopdiaaiy ait* 
aial pooren t ImA •» diefc oro aioaj d tg rt a i of neelieaeo iathe art, tiM fla. 
dent wiraie aims iUlt short of perfection will find liinMolf aaipV rowardod fm 
oreiy cxertiott lie onty tliinli proper to nake. 
To give rales §ur ilw BMnegement of the voice in readiag, fagr wkieh tke ao- 
paasei, empbadi, aad tone*) awiy be difcovered aad put ia practice, it 
pottifaie. After all tlie directioBt tlMt can be offered on dMte pointt, aweb 
vttl remain to be tonglit liy the living lattracler: maeb will be aMtfnable by 
Bootber meant, tban the force of example indoenclag tlie Imitative penrert of tho 
leatner. Soom ndet and priaciplef oa. tliOM heads wi &» however, be fimnd aso» 
lal, to piwent erroaeoos and vicioos modes of unerance } to give the yoai^ 
reader tome tatto of the saldect ; and to aatitt him in acquialng a Jvst and ac* 
carate mode of delivera. The ' observations whkb we Imve to make, for tlmta 
parposet, may be comprised aader the ibUowlng heads s Prsfsr is a rf a s a •Jvmm , 
Dutindntu} SUnontu i Propriety •/ ftm mmm tittHi i n f fiM f4 e a' t| Tea— f f— i— I 
and Mode •/ nadmg vent* 


For many of the observnlions coatalned la this preVndnary tra«C,the Author 
li faidoh»««< to tho writin«» of Or. Blair, and to tbc ISaeyeio|Mdto 




Prep»r UmdiuM ^ Fine*. 

Tb« fcnk ttllMfSaa vi%^ny pnrton who rcftdi to othen, doubtlect, nittit be, to 
■mIw binMelf be beard bj all thote to Whom be reaAs^ He roust endeavour 10 
flU wltb bte Toke the space occopied by the company. This power of Toiee, it 
naj be thought, is wholly a natural talent. It is, in a good niMsnre, the gift of 
■■tare} but it may receire considerable assistance from art. Much depends, 
Iter this purpose, oif the proper pitch and manogeinent of the voice. Every per 
•on hai three pitcbeffia bift #otae ; Hak M>&,ithe MiSHh^^iA the-X«tD one. The 
high, is that whseh be uses in calling aloud to some person at a distance. TIm 
low, is when he approaebes to a Whisper. The middle, is that which he em*> 
ploys iu common conversation, and which he should generally use in reading 
Ifr othen* F<ftr it It a )preu miscalie, to ima^e that one imist tftketbe faigfrOt* 
frtCdi of bis voice, in order tb be well heard mi a bn^ oomisaay. Tbbi Is coK 
fomdi^g two things which aredifiereat, budnest Or strength of Bound, wltb tbo 
k«T or aioto o« wUcb wie spealt. There is a variety Q^ ebimd wllbboi the com- 
|MBS of each key. A qiaaiker may tberefere render bis voieo iMutor, wMiout 
dHerlsg the ke)r : -vtA we fbatt aiwsayt be able to give mcitt body^ most perse, 
vmlng ftiroe of sound, to that pitcb of voice, to which in oonvarsatioa we are 
■ceustoned. Whereas by settfaig out on our highest pilcb ^ bey, we certainly 
ijllow MncAves lose eompast, and are Iik;eiy to -strain our voice before «re have 
doMff. We shall fktigue ourselves, and read with pain ; attd whenever « person 
speaks wkh pain to hliiufelf, he is alwayv heard with pain by bis audience. Let 
ttstberefbre give the voiee fall strength and ewell of sound ; but always pileb It 
en our ordinary speaking key. It should he a constant rbte never to utter a 
ifreater quantity of voice than we can afiord without pain fo oiirseAves, and 
without any extnaovdlnary effort. As long as we keep within these bounds, the 
either organs of speeck will be at liberty to discharge tfiei'r several oflSces wltb 
ease ; and we shall always have our voice under command. But whenever 
we tran^ress these bounds, we give up tbe reins, and have no longer any man- 
mvment of ft. ft is a useful rule too, in order to be well lieard, to cast our eye 
en some of the most distant persons in the company, and to consider oursetvet 
■s reeding to them. We naturally and mechanically utter our words with suck 
«4legree of strength, as to make ourselves be heard by die person whom we 
•ddress, provkled he is withfai tlie reach of our voice. As this is the case in 
•aaversation, it will bold also in reading Co otiiers. lint let us remembej^ timt 
ta readittg, as well as in conveiiMiti<m, it is possible to offend by speaking too 
lond. This extreme hurts tbe ear, l^ makii^ tbe voice come upon it in 
Mnnbtlttg, indislSnct masses. • 

By the habit of reading, when young, in a loud and vehement manner, the 
velee becomes fixed in a strained and unnatural key ; Hnd is rendered incapa* 
Me of that variety of elevation and depression wbicb constitutes tbe true bar. 
mongr of utterance, and affords ea«« x» the re^er, and pleasure to ttie audience. 
This unnatural pitch of the voice, and disagreeable monotooy, are most observa- 
ble in persons who were taught to read in large rooms ; who were accustomed 
|o sCaad «« too great a distance, when reading to their teachers \ whose instructr* 
wiWOTe viiiy tanerAot la their baarisiit ' w wbo a^ere taught by|Mrsoi».ilMt 


fcMd iiiH twtrm M tiM eldef requisite In fiMrmInf a i^ood remtev. 
' are elrennitaiioes wUeb denMind the teriout ettentioa iif every oiw to 
wbomthe ednce t kwi of yoath Is coimnitted. 


In tte seal plMV, l» betef well beard and dearly understood, distinctness oC 
aiiliMlaHiiB miniifcaiei nore tkan mere loudness of sound. Tne quantity o' 
aa uud uuuissaij to fill aeana laii« space, is smaller than is comnwmly Imspn- 
ad % and, with dIsllMl wtlenlatkm, a person with a week voice will make U 
laacfc tetbeTftkan the stronfeei voke can reach without it. To this, therefore 
every ruader ought to pay ff«at akientioii. He must give every sound which 
he vtten, its doe proportion { and make every syUabte, and even every letter la 
the WMMil which he prononnoes, ba heard distinct^} wHhoat shirring, wbhqjMr 
Ifeff, or si^presslng a^y of the proper aaondt. 

Ab aet iaa n taw wl edge of the simple, elaaieotary sounds of the binguage 
andafiwIUty In ezprtssfaig them, are so necessaiy to distinctness of eipressioa, 
IbaA If the laanmr's attainments ara^ hi this respect, tanperfect, (and many there 
•va la this silnathm) it will be hMumbeat on bis teacher, to earfy bim back to 
these primary articaiasiaas ) and to suspend his progress, till he become per* 
fleetly master of theas. It will be in vain to press blni forward, with the bops 
of formfaiga good reader, if ha cannot completely articulate eveiy elemental, 
•oond of the laaguafeb 


Due degTM of ilammeM, 
In order to expi e m omraelves distinctly, moderation b requisite with rrgan 
io the speed of pronouncing. Precipitancy of speech confounds ail uriicalatuM^ 
and an meaafaig. It b scarcely necessary to observe, that there mny l>e nlso an 
extreme on the opposUe side. It is obvious that a lifeless drawling maniM>r ut 
reading, which allows the ndnds of the bearers to be always outrunning tha 
speaker, most render every spcb perfornmnce insipid and fatiguing. But the 
eatreme of reading too fast i» iriioch more common, and mfuires tb« more to 
be gnuded against, becanse, when it has grown into a habit, few errors are 
more dUBcutt to be corrected. To pronounce with a pro|)«riirs:rre of siowu»)«, 
and with full and clear articulation, is necessary to be studiod by all, who wi»b 
to become good readers j and it caanot be too much recommrmled to them* 
Such a pronunciation gives weight and dignity to the sut^ect. It is a great 
aadstancC to the voice, by the pauses and reau which it allows the reader mora 
easily to makt and it enables the reader to swell all his sounds, both w«tb men 
force and mora harmaoj. 


Proprieig 9f FnmnDHiBuiliiBHm 

After the fundamental attentions to the pitch and management of tlie voicoi 
to distinct articulation, and to a proper degree of slowness of speech, what the 
young reader most, in the next ^{ace, stcaly, is propriety of pronunciation ; or 
fiviag 10 evary wand which ha utters 4bat sound whfch the beat usage of tha 


tangaaee appropriates to h •. in opposition to broad, ▼ulpir, or provincial 
auDclatioQ. This Is roquisite Iwth for rmding^ inteUigtbly, and for reading^ with 
correctness and ease. Instructions concerning this article may iie best given by 
the living teticher. But there is one observation, wrliich it may not be improp- 
er here to make. In the English language, every word which consists of mora 
syllables than one, has one accented syllable. The acoents rest sometimes oa 
the vowel, and sometimes on tlie consonant The genius of the langaage re. 
quires the voice to mark that syllable by a stronger percussion, and to paik mora 
slightly over the rest. Now, after we have learned the proper seat* of tbeee 
accents, It is an important rule, to give every word Just the same accent in read- 
ing, as in common discourse. Many persons err in this respect. When they rea4 
to ethers, and with solemnity, they pronounce the syllables in a different bmui- 
rer (Vom what they do at othc^r times. They dwell upon them and protract 
them ; they multiply accents on the same word ; from a mistalien notioB, tl^at 
It give5 gravity and importance to their sulject, and addi to the energy of their 
delivery. Whereas this is one of the greatest faults that can be committed in 
pronunciation : it maltes what is called a pompous or mouthing manner; and 
^ivef! an artificial, affected air to reading, which detracts greatly both from its 
agreeablenejts and its impression. 

Sheridan and Wallier have published Dictionaries, for ascertaining the trvc 
and best pronunciation of the words of our language. By attentii^ely consulting 
them, particularly "Walter's Pronouncing Dictionary, " the young reader will 
be much Assisted, in his Endeavours to attain a correct pronunciation of th* 
words belonging to the English language. 



By enipbnsis is meant^a stronger and fuller sound of voice, by which we dis. 
ting-itsh some word or words, on which we design to lay particular stresR, and 
to show how they affect the rest of the sentence. Sometimes the emphatic 
words must be distinguished by a particular tone of voice, as well as by a par- 
ticular stress. On the right management of the emphasis depends the life of 
pronunciation. K no emphasis be placed on any words, not only is diwourse 
rendered heavy and lifeless, but the meaning left often ambiguous. If tlie em 
phasis be placed wrong, we pervert and confound the meaning wholly. 

Emphasis may be divided into the Superior and the Inferior emphasis. Th« 
superior emphasis determines the meaning of a sentence, with reference to 
something said before, presupposed by the author as general knowledge, or re- 
moves an anlbiguity, where a passage may have more senses than one. The 
inferior emphasis enforces, graces, and enlivens^ but does not /Ix, the meaning of 
any passaere. The words to which this latter emphasis is given, are in general, 
such as seem the most important in the sentence, or, on other accounts, to ment 
thU distinction. The following passage will serve to exemplify this superior 
emphasis * 

« Of man's first disobedience, and the IVnit 

" Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste 

•« Brmight death into the world, and all our wo,** Ik. 

• Sing hwvenly Musn ! " 


aMWHtoof th« Al Ml ffcUt — i 'I " * ft " < Jlmi iiwiii n w'WW wM kamm to t, thii» 



*0f «mm'« flnt ttfU^rtiHifffaMid th€ ItrniL" k& 

woold Ml M >rac i «mI tht Um b« 

■ Of man*! Jlrst difooMiCBee,* fce. 

Ag»inj mAmitOng deitth (u wst realty the cue) to hvn beea An aiilif«rd of 
oad drradfnl poaisbment, brought upon mon In coinnqoonco of hit tramgrnt- 
riMi } oo Untfuppofttion the third line would be rtoo, 

• Brmight 4iolA tarto the wofM, * te. 

m if,we were to soppote that mankind knew there waiMKh an evil at death 
ji «therrac&Mi, tboaffh the place they inhabited had heen ftw firaai it tiUlheit 
w<i;i miiin, fhf line would ran thwt 

« Broocht death Into the tMrU;" fce. 

ThetqiMtior emphasb findt place In the fnXkmfmf ihort tealHMa, which ad 
aMt of finir distinct meanings, each of whidk ii aieeitafaNd bf the 

' Do yim ride 10 tewa t»4iijf 

• Shatt I imrard hU ionrieae wilh/aiMftMd f Shall I forget Mn who 

«* If hie pripeipieeare/elK,nB apology fiwattuwy can —ket h a»i %ll I K 
IbviMlad iM ArMtA, ao ceBMire firaai eOcri can audw them wrnigw " 

« Though ibep, yet deer; dwogh fcntle, yet not duXT i 
** Strong without rag* i without iftt^lanmg^fM. " 

^AfrUnd esaffgeratcc a omaH wtuu ; aa iM«9, hie arfmti. * 

"The wite nwm is happy, when lie gains his own approbation ; the,/bai; when 
he gains that of AtAcw." 

The superior emphasis, in reading as in qMakbig, must be determined en- 
UK^ by theseiue ofthe passage, and always made tdikez but as to the inferior 
emphasis, totte alone seems to have the right of fixing its sitoatlon and quantity 

Among the number of person s, who huTO had proper opportunities of leam- 
iag to read, in the liest manner it is now tanffht, very few oould he seleetedt 
win, in a given instance, would use the inferior emphasis alike, either as to 
plaee <^ lyiantity. Sonw persons, indeed, ase seareely any degree of It ; and 
aihers do not scruple fo carry it far beyoud aqy thing to be Ibund in common 
\ and area oometfaMa throw it woa voids io very hdtfag in 


•e vM^ tkat It to tvidwtif doM with ao otbw vimr, tbaa to flv« a grMter v» 
ri«ty to the modalallon.* NotwithHindfaig tbb divcnily of pnetfc*,tlwrf m 
certainly proper boundariei, widUn wkieh tbli|iupba^ amit be rctcndaed, toi 
order to make it meet the approbation of ioiina Judgment and correct tnUe 
It will doubtless bare different degrees of exertioQ, aeeordiDg to tb^ grenCev 
or less degrees of Importance of the woids upon wUdi it operates } and then 
may be.rery properly some vaiiety in the use of it: but Its amplication It net 
arUtrary, depending on the caprice of readers* 

As emphasis often fiUls on words In dlffinrent parts of the sMie senlract^ an 
k is frequently required to be eontfaraed with a little variation, on twO| natf 
sometimes more words together. TharftUowing senteneca exemplify both 0m 
parts of this position: <*If yoa seek to make one rieh^ study not lo itiaremm ki§ 
•tyro, but to Umiiniah ki$ desiru. " ^ The Mexican figUTM, or picture writing, 
•present l&tng<, not worcb: they exhibit WMges to tk$ eye, not tdeoe to tibe w^ 

Some sentences are so foil and eomprehensi?e, tiiat almost erery word is em 
pbatieal: as, « Ye hills and dales, ye rirers, woods, and pl^bis !" or, as that p^ 
thetie expostulation in the prophecy of Exeklel, ** Why will ye die ! ** 

Empliasis, besides its other offices, is the gre^t regulator of quantl^. Tho«gh 
the quantity of our sylMbles is fixed, in words separht^ pronooneed, yist il 
is mutable, when these words are arranged in sentences; Ae long bdi^ 
changed into short, the short Into long, according to the i^poitance of the wont 
with regard to meaning. Emphasis also, in particular cases, alters the seat of 
the accent. This it demonstrable from the following examples : <* He sbali te. 
crease, but I shall decrease. ** ** There is a difference between giving andybrgiv- 
Ing.** <* In this species of composition, jrfmuibility is much more essential than' 
pro&ablltty. " In these examples, the emphasis requires the accent to be pbeed 
on qrUahles, to which it does not commonly Iteloag. 

In order to acqidre the proper management of the emphasis, the great rale 
to be gf Ten, is, that the reader study to attain a Just conception of tiie force and 
spirit of the sentiments which he is to pronounce. For to lay the emphasis mdtil 
•xaet prc^rle^, is a constant exercise of good sense and attention. It is te 
from being an inconsiderable attainment. It is one of the most decisive tiiali 
of a tnie and Just taste } and most arise llrom feeling delleately oorselres, and 
from Judging aecorately of what is fittest to strike the fteUngs of others. 

There is one error, i^iost which it is particuhirly proper to caution the leonto 
er } namely, that of multiplying emphatical words too mucli, and using the em 
phasU indiscriminately. It is only by a prudent reserve and distinction in the 
Me of them, that we can give them any. wdght. If they recur too often; if a 
reader attempts to render every thing he expresses of high importance, by a 
multitude of strong emphasis, we soon learn to pay little regard to them. Ta 
crowd every sentence with eoqthatical words, is like crowding all the pages oi 
a book with Italic characters } which, as to the effect, is Just the same as to usa 
no such distincticnis at alL 

* By modulation is meant that pleasing variety of voice, which is p erceived in 
uttering a sentence, and which, in its nature, is perfertiy distinct finom empliad% 
and the tones of emottoa and passion. The young reader should be careful t# 
render his modulation correct and easy j and, for this purpose, should fionn h 
npoB Che model of the most 'ndldoiK aad accwnte 



Tmms an dURml haih IWmb miplnsb and pMnn'; eomlilfaif In tbt 
ar wtlwlkim ofaomid wUeb w« emplogr, in fbe e ip i'^e wlo u of ovr wiluicu t i 
VnplMdbaAtetipMllcatarwofiltandphrBieftWHhadegrMoftoiMor Iniaa* 
^m of voice } bat «nwa, peeoUiirtjr to called, alKpet feateoccei paragrapfaa, aad 

wii e Uai ei evea (hm whole of a dtocewrte. 

Ta abow the«w and neeenUy of tOMi, va aeed Milgr aiwenre, tbatthe mind, 

oynm— ifaiiay Ha Idaaa, la la a eoMlaat Male of aetlvlly, enotioa, or agfta 

'on, froai the dMSnvateflbets which thoae Ideal prodnee hi the apaaker. Moir 

he ead of Mwh oomonaleatiaa helBff, Bol meralx to lay open the ktcatybot alM 

ha diffHcat IMIaKS which th«r escUe in hhn who alien theoB, then nuet bo 

theraigaachaB woffdffttimaaUiMtthafa feeUnga} aawoida niteradin aaMV 

ottnova ■aiiniir can icpicMnt only a rtnllar Mate of nind, perftctfy ft«a ttam 

I activity and emolioa. AalbecoBBMiaicatlonofthaMiniernal feellagawaa 

if oMMb nMM« conte q fte n ce in oar Mcial Intereoana than the iMre oonvc^nen 

af ideea, the Anihor of our betaig did not, at In that convayance, leave the i» 

tnnlioo of the laagMga of eaMMion 10 man « bmlflipcaiiad It hhHelf apon ont 

nature, in the fame manner at he haa done with regard to the VMt of the atthnil 

ivorld} all of which axprtiith^varlom feelinge, by various toBca. Oari,fai> 

Vcd, fimn the nverior rank that we hold, are in a hl|^ degree UMira eompra* 

CBtive} aBtheralenotaBactofthemlnd,anesertionofthefhn^,oranam0> 

kmof the heart, wUch hat not lit peculiar tone, or note of the voice, Iqr which 

iistobeesprened} and which it tuited exactly to the degree of iaternalfbel* 

og. It it chiefly in the proper UM of thete tenet, that tb« life^tpirlt|beaaQr 

*«d harmony of delivery consist. 

'llw Umits of this introductkm do not admit of examplet, to lUntlrata Oa v» 

cij of tooetbelongiagto the difRprentpasdons and amotions. Weshall,how 
Aer,ifdect one, which Is extracted from the beantiftil lamentation of David ovev 
deal and Jonathan, and which wJl],ln some d^^cv, elucidate what has bees 
audontblssol^ect. "Tliebeaii^of Israel is slain upon thy high placet; how 
ara the mighty falleo t Tell it not hi Oath ) publish it not in the streets of Aska- 
lon } Isat the daughters of the FhiHstines rejoice; lest the daoghten of the on 
atovnmcltedtrMimpb. Yemouniaintof6iilioa,lettliereljenodewnorrainu]^ 
•f ;|^^ nor ileidt of offerings* for there tJie shield of the mighty was vilely cast 
-Mi^$ Ae shield of Saul, as though IM bad not been anointed with oIL" Tha 
fint of these divMons expresses sorrow and lamentation : therelbre the note It 
lnw« The uext content a spirited eoaBmand,aadshoBld be pronounced much 
higher. The other sentence, in which he makes a pathetic address to tha moon 
where his friends hvi been^fadn,most be expressed in a note quite diflW- 
AomtbetwoliBnner} nottohnratthailnt,nortohighattheteooBd,lnn 
ff Arm, nnd yet plabitlva tone. 

The correct and natural langntga of tha emotiout It not to diAeuk to he at. 
inload, at OMMt renders teem to hnagfaMb If weentarinloihe ipiritoftiiemi. 

|hoi%eeBtiments, as well ea into the meaning of his words, we shall not fall tn 
tlis wonla In nmaiirlw mm4jmI tmMM. Far there em fiiw necmle. wbU 


■M(r to traoA to dM fMjdefectlTV ud «R«a0ouf aillMd,ia wUA A* aitc^ 
twiUng Is tKoght ; wberel^y all the variow, luttural, eipi ci ri f tonw of fpecel^ 
m nippfnMd} and a few artificial, wnnwining i«adlii|r mteti *n ihrtitiifi 

But when we recommend to readert, an altenlioa to tfM Ipnt and lancoas^ 
if emotioBi, we must be ondentood to do It with proper limlHtiaB* ModeraUo^ 
!• necesiaiy in this point, ai it it in otlier things. For wlien reading becomnn 
&U>*ij imitatl^re, it aisumet a theatricai manner, and nuut be Uglily ia^propci^ 
« well a« give offence to the iieaMM^ beeai e it is Ineonaiatent with that dell 
ery and modeslj, which are indslpensalde vn snch oocadons. The spenket 
^tto delitren fab own emotfons mnat be sapposed to lie more vivhi and anima. 
Md, than wonid be proper in the 'person who felalm them at second hand 

We shall conohide this section with the following mle, for the tones that la 
dicate the passio n s and emotiens. « In rending, let all joor (ones of ratpraasiaa 
to borrowed from those of common speech, bnt, in some degree, more MMtf 
ahameterised. Let those tones which signify anj disagreeable passion of tha 
mind, be still more fahitthan tfiose which Indicate agreeable emotioos $ and,oa 
aH ocoBskms, p r tm ri e yottrteNes frtim being sofiur allbcted withtKesaldect,ni 
•» be able to proceed tfaroogh it, widi that easj and masterly manner, which 
too Its good eflfeets in tUs, as well as in ererjr other Mt* 


PmiMt. ' 

Pauses or rests, in speaking or reading, are a total cematlon of the Tolee, dtt 
ling a perceptible, and in many cases, a measurable space of time. Pansm an 
equally necessary to the speaker, and the hearer. To the speaker, thaf he rmf 
take breath, without which he cannot proceed far in delivery ; and that ne msgr 
by thme temporary rests, relieve the organs of speech, whkcV otherwise would 
be soon tired by continued action : to the hearer, that the ear also may be rai 
lieved from the fritigue, which it would otherwise end«f% Atmi a continuity ol 
sound; and that the understanding may have 8uflid[e<4 time to mark the die 
tinction of sentences, and their several members. 

There a^e two kinds of pauses *. first, emphatical pauses } and next, such as 
marie the distinctions of sense. An emphatical pause is generally made afi»r 
something has been said of peculiar moment, and on which we desire to fix tto 
hearer^ attention. Sometimes, before such a thing Is said, we usher h la wiA 
a pause of this nature. Such pauses have the same effect as a strong emphasli ^ 
and are sul^ect to the same rules ; especially to the caution, of not ivpeatin^ 
them too frequently. For as they excite uncommon atteiition, and of conrp 
raise expectation, if the importance of the matter be not folly answerable tt 
ioch expectation, they occasion disappointment and disgust 

Bnt the most frequent and tbe principal use of pauses, Is to maih the ^vm 
fens of the sense, and at the same time to allow the reader to draw his brsaA 
and the proper and delicate adjustment of such pauses, is one of the mostnica 
and difficult articles of delivery. In all roadii^, dm mnnagemont of the brsam 
l o qoiius a good deal of oara, so a< nottooM^ena to divide words fiwm one an 
other, which have so inthnaiin a connexion, that they onghtto bo p wme an oso 
wHh the same breath, and without the leaat separation. Many a sentei^ll 
miserably mangled, end the fane of the omphasit totally lost,by dlvislombstag 
iMdo in the wrong ptace. To avoid tids, eveiy mm, whikt to iareadl4g,itonii 
to o«f «tf<«M4o^iwi«o • «iU «qff¥ tf iNWi^ 

im'RODUcnaif. ia 

gTMt fslstait t» ttaMftoe, Itei 1h« brtath wmm tetfrmra Mfjr ■• fk« tad of • 
««rM, whenthe valee ii allnwBd to ftU. It nuijr MtHj b« potaratf at tbt !■• 
arvmb of the pniod, wb«o the «otee if Mq^endcd ooly Ihr ■ mmiMiit) md, bgr 
lUi iaaBaceiM»t«<">c *""y always have a mlltfiaat Mock for oanTinf aa tl« 
Migatt wwHur*! wHImmi iiapftipar ia|cr f aptloas* 

?aaiaf la imXmg mast geaeralljr be fbnaed apea Hie aianner la wUeh wa 
■neroarttNes la oRHaniy, teaglble eoafanatkm ; aad aoC apoa tbe itiflrarlUL 
aial naaaer, wUeta In aeqalred from rvadlo^ books aeconllnf to tfie eoaiB W 
paacMadoB. It will bf ao awaas be safleieat to atiead lo tlie polais asrd la 
pftoHaf ; Sir time are for from marhiaif all tbe peases wbkh oa^tlo be aiaila 
fta nvdiaK. A airaliaaleal attaatloa to these rasttaif places, has perhaps ^eea 
•ae cease of Bioaol0B7,bjlcadfai|f tbe reader to Bsnailar tone aiereiy Slop, aatf 
m aatform cajjeace at eeety period. The priatarfaseafpoiati, It to assist the 
feeder In dlseerala^ the fraanaatical eonsmsctloa ; aad It Isoa^ as a seeeada- 
ry olUeet, that they regaliilr bis pronaaclatina. Oa thin head, the foOowiaf 
dhaethMiaaqrbeof ases **Thoa|^.lareiidiBf,Creaiatlemlonshoahl bepeld to 
Ike stops, yet a greater shoaU be gfren to tbe sense ) aad their oorrespiMident 
tfaaes occarfoaally leagthened beyond what Is asaal ia eomaioa speech.* 

To reader peases pleaslaf aad expressive, they mast aot only be made la the 
rifht place, bat elsoeceompenled with a proper tone of voice, by whieh the an 
tare of these peases Is latlaaMed ; maeh aiore than tqrthe length of them, which 
caa eeUom be exacts aaaesarsd. Sometimes h is oaly a sU(|rbt aad shapie sus- 
peasiea af votee that Is proper; semetiaics a degrse of cadence la the voice 
is faqaired { and sometimes that pcenller tone aad cadence which denote the 
aeateaoe to be Aalslicd* la all these cases, we are to regvhile aa rselv es by 
atleadiagto the aianoer in which nature teaclws as to speak, whea engaged in 
teal aad eemest discoarse with ottaert. The following sentence ezempHArs the 
■affnitfnf aad tlie«loiMf peases: <* Hope, die balm of Ufo^ sooths os aader eve- 
ry asL.iactnBai'* The font aad seooad peases are aceompanied by aa tatecfhia 
flrff voice, that gives the bearer an expectatton of something- fcr^er to eompleia 
the sense} the indection attending the third pease siguldes that the sease la 

The preoediDg example Is aa lUastrathm ef the saspending pause, la Its siai- 
ple slate : tbe foUowiag instance exhibits thet pease with a degree of eadeace 
^1 the voice; **If ccmtent cannot remove the disqaletadesof asaakind, It will at 
least alleriate them. " 

The sospemllng pause is often, la the saaie seateace, atleaded wilh'both the 
rising and the falling inflection of voice , as will be seen In this example : **]Iod- 
erste exercises and Imbitoal temperance', streogtlien the constitotioa.''* 

As tbe sospendiog pauiie any be tbas atteoded with bo^ the risiiy aad the 
foiling InflecUoa, it is tiie saioe with regard to the closing pease: it admits o| 
both. The foliog indection generally accompanies It ', but it b not anfreqiient- 
ly connected with the rising Inflection. Interrogative sentences, for instance, 
are often terminated la this awaners as,** Am I aagratef al' f ** "Is he ia 
earnest' ?* 

But where a sentence is begtm by an interrogative jntmoan or advem, it ie 
sominonly terminated by tlie falling iadccticm t as, * What has he gained by 
kis folly^f**«Wbo wlU assist him^ f " Where is the messengervf* « Whea 
tfd be arrive*/* 

• yhaririaffinfleeilaatedRMMedbrtlMacatoithefollliVtkyiktgiaeai 


14 mTROnU.CTiCtff. 

Wben tvo queslloiu are united in one leotenoe, and coanaeted bgr the 
junction or^ the first takes the rising, the second |1m falling biflection: «% 
** J>oes his conduct supiiort discipline', or destroy it> * 

The rising and failing inflections most not be eonfoonded with cmpbaaii* 
Though they may often coincide, they are, in their nature, perfectly distinet 
Kraphasif sometimes controls those inflections. 

Tiie regular application of the rising and falUng InAeetloiis, eonfen lo madi 
beauty on expression, and is so necessary to be icndied by the young reader» 
that we shall insert a few more examples to Induce him to pay greater attentkm 
to the subject. In these instances, all the Inflections are not marhed. Sueh 
only are distinguished, as are most atriking, and will best senre to ahow th« 
reader their utility and importance* 

^ Manufactures^, traded, and agriciUture', certainly employ in4« than bImw 
leen parts in twenty of the human species. ** 

*^ l|e who resigns the world has no tepiptatlon to envy', hatreds malice^ a»« 
ger' } but is in constant possession of % serene mind t be who foliowvtbe p|a»i 
fures of it, which are in ibeir very nature disappointing, is in constant search «l 
care\ solicitude', remorse', and coufusion^. " 

(* To advise the ignorantS relieve the needyS comfort the afflicted', aredudet 
|bat fall in our way almost eveiy day of our lives. ** 

*<Tho«e evil spirits, who, by long custom, have contract^ in the body haliilt 
of lust' and sensuality^ } malice', and revenge^ \ an aversion to every thing thai 
is good\ just\aad laudable', are naturally seasoned and prepared for pain Mid 
misery. " 

** I am persuaded, that neither death', nor Ufe> ; nor angels', nor prinelpaUtie^ 
nor powers^ j nor things present', nor things to eome^ ; nor height', nor deptfavj 
nor aay other creature', shall be able to separate us from the love of Qod\ " 

The reader wlio would wish to see a minute and ingenious investlgaUen of 
the nature of these inflectimis, and the rules by which they are governed, m^ 
•onsuU Walkpr^B Elements of Elocution. 


Manntr ofrtaimg Vent* 

When we are reading verse, there is a peculiar difficulty In making the pan- 
•es justly. The difficulty arises from the melody of verse, which dictates to the 
ear pauses or rests of lu own : and to adjust and compound these properly with 
the pauses of the sense, so as neither to hurt the ear, nor ofl^ud the understand* 
ing, is so very nice a matter, that it is no wonder we so seldom meet with good 
readers of poetry. There are two kiqds of pauses that belong to the melody of 
verse t one is, the pause at the end of the line ; and the other, the csesural pause 
In or near the middle of it. With regani to the pause at the end of the Une, 
which m.trks that strain or verse to be finished, rhyme renders this always send- 
jle ; and in some measure compels us to observe it in our prununciatton. In 
/esp^ct to blank verse, we ought also to read it so as to make every line sensi. 
vie to the ear: for, what is the use of melody, or for what end has the poet 
eoniposed in verse, if, in reading bis lines, we suppress his numbers, by omit* 
ling the final pause ; and degrade them, by our pronunciation, into merei>roeef 
At the same time that we attend to this pause, every appearance of sing-song 
and tone must be carefully guarded against. The close of the line where H 
VMhes m jpaufc in the maaain^ ought not ta ba marlsad hr iiieh a tana as Is 


WtA ia flaMmf « te i mut e ^ but, withoirt dtlMr fill oi t to t a d nn of thft volr«, 
ll dMMM be derated ooly bj so diglit a ra»penslon of imiiMl, ei tmiy dllltnf uUlk 
tfbt pMnffe firont o«e Hoe to ■noiher, wltbool tularin; the mnkninp. 

TIM other kind of melodioaf pause, is that wbicb falls soniewliere about ilio 
■Iddle of the verse, and divides it into two hemistichs} a iwtue, nut so yrrat 
•ft that wbich Ixiongs to Uie dnse of ibe Itne, but stiU sensible lu an onllnaiy 
•v. This, wbicb Is ealiwl tbe CKsural pause, mmjf fisU, iu Lni^Usb b«roic ven^ 
•Aer the 4ib, 51a, 6tb, or 7tb syUable in tbe liue. Where tbe verse to so con* 
■tmcied, that this csesaral pause coincidet with tbe slis:btrst pause or dlvlsioa 
la the sense, the line can be read easily } ap in tiie t»o first verses ol* Pos^^i 

. * Ye nymphs oi oolynia^^ I liegin tlie son|^ , 
** To b«av^nly thenies^^ tablinier strains belong. " 

B«t If h should happen that words which have so strict and Intimate a eo»* 
•ezion, as not to bear even a momentary separation, arc divided from one a»- 
«ther tqr this csnural |muse, we then feel a sort of struggle between the sense 
mud the sound, which remlen it difficult to read such Uues harmoniously. Tha 
rvie of proper proiiuncUiiion in such cases, is to rcganl only the pause which 
the sense forms ) and to read the Mae accordingly. The neglect of the csMoral 
pause may make the line sound somewhat unharmonlously { but tha edhet 
would be much worse, if the sense were sacrificed to the sound. For iMtinaa^ 
te tke following line of Milton, 

-** What in me Is dark. 

(* Ittnmine; what is low, raise and svpporC,* 

lh« sense clearly dictates the pause aAer sffumins, at tha end of the third qrB* 
hie, wUch, in reading, ought to be made acomrdlngly} though, if tha makM^ 
•911^ were to be regarded, illwmim should be connected wUh what follows, and 
Ibe pause not made till the fourth or siith ^Habla. So In thafoUowlag Uaea 
toptiH Epistle to Dr. Arbutbuot, 

"Isit, with sad civility i rand, * 

<he ear plainly points out the easural pause as falling after sad^ tha fintfth lyW 
fable. But it would be very bad reading to make any paase there, so as loaepa* 
«ate tod and ehilitif. The sense admits of no other pause thanafter the secMid 
syllable sit, which therefore must be the only pause made in readiag tMs pari 
of ttie sentence. ) 

There is another mode of dividing some verses, by introducing wnat may ha 
aallrd demi-cse^aitu, which require very slight pauses } and which the reader 
-ainuld maoBge with judgment, or he will be apt to fall into an affected si«f> 
«>og mode of pronouncing verses of tliis kind. The following Hues exemplUy 

"tta demi<vs4ura : 

* Warms in tne sun , refrerties' in the breese, 
"t Glows' fai the stars", and blossoois' in the trees; 
■LlM«' through all life" ; eitends' throagh aM 
•flfsuads'uadividad" aperaies' 



•r tint iDtradttctioB, tb« ConplUr Mfltfhc Hwilf If 
to Ifwcben, «» «sen**fe their w^fiis Uk diaeovvAng and ezplalaing 
flM emphatic wordi, mmI the primer tones and pa uKt , of erciy portion ani gi wid 
tlMm to read, previoofltjr to Iheir bein|f called out to tb« performaneo. Ttaaa 
prepanUoi7 IcMopi, in which tbejr shottld be regularly emamined, will impravfl 
Uiair Jttd£;ment and taste; prevent the practice of reading without attenfion tm 
Ihn sal^eei \ and establish a habit of readily diiooveriqf the i 
WMi hanu^, of eveiy senienot tbey peraso 






DILIGENCE, industiT, and proper improTcnent vf 
tim^ are material duties of the younp;. 

The acquisition of kno\> ledge, is one of the most honour- 
able occupations of youUi. 

WhaJteyer useful or encaging endowments we poaseasy 
▼irtue is requisite, in oruitr to thi'ir shining willi proper 

Virtuous j'outh gradually brings forward accomplishes 
and flourishing mamiood. 

Sincerity and trutliform the basis of every virtue. 

Disappointments and distress, are often blessuigs in dis- 

Change and alteration, form the very essence of the world. 

True happiness is of a retired nature ; an enemy to pomp 
and noise. 

In order to acquire a capacity for happiness, it must he 
our first study to rectify inward diAuniers. 

Whatever purifies, fortifies also the heait. 

From our eagerness to grasj), ue strangle and destroy 

A temperate spirit, and moderate expectations, are excel 
. lent safeguards of the mind, in this uncertain and changing 


In Uie first chaiNer, the ecnnnller bas exhfliiteil tentenccs m a ^reat varietj 
of ronstructtoii, and in all the diirerhUy of punctuation. If well practi«ed upon* 
he premniet they will fully prepare tbe young reader for the vartout pauses, 
iblh^Aions, and modulations of voice, which the succeeding^ pieces -require. 
Tlie AuthoHs •* English Exercises." under the head of PunctuaUun, wUl alibnl ' 
th« teamer additional scope for imprwint; hiouelf in reading s«ateoces and 
paragraphs varioiisly aoustrseted. 

18 The Eni^liih Reader. Part U 

Tber^is nolfaing, «xceplsimpficil|r of mtentiony and P^ty 
of principle, diat can stand the test of neat' approach and 
stnct examination. 

The value of any possession, is to be chiefly estimated, by 
the relief which it can bring us^ in tiie time of our greatest need. 

No person who has once yielded up the goTemment of his 
mind, and given loose rein to his desires and passi9ns, can 
tell how far they may carry him. 

Tranquillity of mind, is always most likely to be attained, 
when the busmess of the worid, is tempered with thoughtful 
and serious retreat 

He who would act tike a wise man, and build his house on 
the rock, and not on the sand, should contemplate human 
life, not only in the sunshine , but in the shade. 

Let usefulness and / beneficence, net ostentation and van- 
ity, direct the train of your pursuits. 

To maintain a steady and unbroken mted, amidst all thft 
shocks of the world, marks a great and noble spirit. 

Patience, by preserving composure within, resists the im* 
pr^ssioQ wtiicn trouble makes from without 

Compassionate affections, even when they draw tears 
from our eyes for human misery, convey satisfaction to the 

They who have nothing to give, can often afford relief to 
others, by imparting what they feel. 

Our ignorance of what is to come, and of what is really 
good or evil, should correct anxiety about worldly success. 

The veil which covers from our sight the events of suc- 
ceeding years, is a vei) woven by the hand of mercy. 

The best preparation for all the uncertainties of futurity, 
consists in a well-ordered mind, a good conscience, and a 
cheerful submission to the will of Heaven. 


THE chief misfortunes that befall us in life, can be traced 
to some vices or follies which we have conmiitted. 

Were we to survey the chambers of sickness and distress, 
we should often find them peopled with the victims of intem- 
perance and sensuality, and with the children of vicious in- 
dolence and sloth. 

To be wise in our own eyes, to be wise in the opinion of 
the world, and to be wise in the sight of our Creator, are three 
thines so very different, as rarely to coincide. 

Man, in his highest earthly glory, is but a reed floatuig on 
the stream of time, and forced to follow every new direction 
of the current 

CAop. 1. Sekci Sentences^ 9fc. 19 

The corrupted temper, and the guilty passions of the bad, 
unstrate the effect of every advantage wiiiclitli^ world cun- 
lers on them. 

The external misfortunes of life, disappointments, pover 
4j,and aickncwi, are light in comparison of tliosti inward dis- 
tresses of mind, occasioned by folly, by passion, and by 

No station is so high, no power so great, no character so 
tmblemished, as to exempt men from tlie attacks of rai^ness, 
tbalice, or envy. 

Moral and religious instruction, derives* its efficacy, not 
so much from what men are taught to know, as from what 
^ey are brought to feeL 

He who pretends to great sensibility towards men, and yet 
' has no feehng for the high objects of religion, no heart to ad 
mire and adore the great FatJier or Uie univei'se, has reason 
to distrust the truth and delicacy of his sensibility. 

When, iqwn rational and sober inquiry, we have estab- 

fished our prindples, let us not suffer them to be shiilbii bj 
ic scofis of the licentious, or ttie cavils of the scenttcn. 
When we observe any Uuidency to treat religioPor mor- 

als, with dbrespect and levity, let us hold it to lie a sure in 
dication of a perverted underHtanding, or a depraved heart* 
Every degree of guilt, incurred by yielding io temptation, 
tends to delnse the mind, and to uVuken tlie generous and 
benevolent principles of human nature. 

Luxury, pride, and vanity, have frequently as much in- 
fluence ui corrupting the sentiments of tne great, as igno- 
rance, bigotry, and prejudice, have in misleading tlie opm- 
icns of the multitude. 

Mixed as tlie present state is, renson, and religion, pro- 
Dounce, that, generally, if not always, there is more happi- 
ni»s than misery, more pleasure tlian pain, in tlie condi- 
tion of man. 

^ Society, when formed, requires distinctions of property, 
diversity of conditions, sul)ordination of ranks, my] a niul- 
liplicity of uccup:iti<ins, in order to advancr 'H' general 

That the temper, the sentiments, the morality, and, in 
general, the whole conduct and character ol' men, are influ- 
fioced by the example and disposition of tlie persons with 
whom tliey associaite, is a reflection which has long since 
passed into a proveH)^ and been ranked among the sfandinjC 
rnaxiniii of human wisdom, in all aeea uf the world 

30 T%e Engiish Reader. fori U 


THE desire of improvement, discovers ft liberal mind ; 
it is connected ^ ith many accomplishments, and many 

Innocence confers ease and freedom on the mind ; and 
leaves it open to every pleasing sensation. 

Moderate and simple pleasures, relish high >vith the tem 
perate : In the midst of his studied refinements, the volup 
tuary languishes. 

Gentleness corrects whatever is offensive in our manners; 
and, by a constant train of humane attentions, studies to al- 
leviate the burden of common misery. 

That gentleness which is the characteristic of a good man, 
L has, like evei^ other virtue, its seat in the heart : and, let 
f me add, nothmg, except what flows from the heart, can ren- 
der even external manners truly pleasing. 

IHrtue, to become either vigorous or useful, must be 
habitually active : not breaking forth occasionally with a 
tRmsittit lustre, like the blaze of a comet ; but regular in its 
rifetttrm like the light of day : not like the aromatic gale, 
whfcrs|»etimes feasts the sense ; but like the ordinary 
breeze, Hiich purifies the air, and renders it healthful. 

The happiness of every man, depends more upon the state 
of his own mind, than upon any one external circumstances 
nay, more than upon all external things j)ut together. 

in no station, m no period, let us tiunk ourselves secure 
from the dangers which spring from our passions. Every 
age, and every station tney beset ; from youth to gray 
h^rs, and from the peasant to the prince. 

Riches and pleasures, are the chief temptations to crinunal 
deeds. Yet those riches, when obtained, may very possibly 
overwhelm us with unforeseen miseries. Those pleasures 
may cut short our health and life. 

He who fs accustomed to tui-n aside from the wofld, and 
commune with himself in retirement, will, sometimes at 
least, hear the truths which the multitude do not tell hina, 
\. more sound instructer will lift his voice and a water, witii.- 
in the heart those lutent suggestions, wliich the world had 
overpowered and suppressed. 

Amusement often becomes the business, instead of tii« 
relaxation, of joiing persons : it is then highly pernicio«s. 

He that waits for an opportunity to do much at once, may 

breatiie out his life in idle wishes; and regret, in the last 

hour, his useless intentions and barren zeal. 

^ The L])irit of true religion, breathes mildness and affability. 

^r iLcivQA a native, unaffected aaaaJ:o thtt bdiaviour. It is a»* 

C^ap^l. SekdSenieneeifS^c. fl 

eia], kind, and cheerftil : far removed from tiiat tloomy and 
illiberal sti^entition, which clouds the brow, snarpeiM th« 
temper, dejects the spirit, and teaches men to fit themselves 
for another world, by neglecting the concerns of this. 

Reveal none of the secrets of thy friend. Be faithful to 
his interests. Forsake him not in danger. Abhor the 
thought of acquiring any advantage by his prejudice. 

Man, al tvays prosperous, would be giddy and insolent 
always afflicted, would be sullen or despondent Hopes 
and tears, joy and sorrow, are, therefore, so blended in liis 
life, as both to give room for worldly pursuits, and to recall, 
from time to time, the admonitions ol conscience. 


TIME once past, never returns : the moment which Is 
lost, is lost for ever. 

There is nothing on earth so stable, as to assure us of un« 
disturbed rest ; nor so powerful, as to afford us constant pro- 

The house of feasting, too often becomes an avenue to 
the house of mourning. Short, to the licentious, u th^ in- . 
terval between them. -» • 

It is of great importance to us. to form a proper «4(imate 
of human life ; without either loading it with imaginary 
e vils, or expecting from it greater advantages tlian it is abla 
to yWd. 

AiiMMig all our corrupt passions, there is a strong and mti- 
mate connexion. When any one of them is adopted into our 
family, it seldom quits us Un'il it has fathered upon us all its 

Charity, like tho auo, bn|[nten8 every object on which it 
shines ; a censorious disposition, casts every characteir into 
the darkest shade it wiO near. 

Many men mistake the love, for the practice of virtue ; and 
are not so much good men, as the friends of goodness. 

Genuine virtue, has a language that speaks to every heart 
^roughout the \vorld. It is a Uncage which is understood 
by all. In every region, every climate, the homage paid to 
•t^ is the same. In no one sentiment, were ever mlankind 
more generally agreed. 

Tlie appearances of our security, are frequently deceitful. 

When our sky seems most settled and serene, in some un- 
observed quarter gathers the little black cloud, in which tho 
t«*iiniest fennents, and prepares to dischHi*geitselfon our head. 

Tije man oi* b ue fortitude, may be compared to the castle 
ouilt on a rock which defios the attacks of tb^ surrounding 

«t The EngUnh Reader^ Pwrt I 

waten: the mftn of a feetje and timorous gpirit, to a hu 
placed on the shore, whieh every wind shakes, #nd everj 
wave overflows. 

Nothing is so inconsistent vrith self-possession, as violenl. 
anger, it overpowers reason ; confounds our ideas ; (U»* 
torts the appearance, and blackens the colour of every ob 
ject. By the storms which it raises within, and by the mia« 
chiefs which it occasions without, it generally brings on th« 
passionate and revengeful man, greater misery than he can 
orio^ on the object ofhis resentment 

The palace of virtue has, in all ages, been represented as 
placed on the smmnit of a hill ; in the ascent of which, labour 
IS requisite, and ditliculties are to be surmounted ; and where 
a conductor is needed, to dii-cct our way, and to aid our steps. 

In judging; of others, let us always think the best, and en^ 
ploy the spirit of charity and candour. But in judging ol 
ourselves, we ought to be exact and severe. 

Let him, who desires to see others happy, make haste to 
give while his gift can be enjoyed ; and remember., that eve- 
ry moment of delay, takes away something from the value 
of his benefaction. And let him who proposes his own hap- 
p!n«BB, reflect, that while he forms his pui^ose, the day rous 
on, and-*' the night cometh, when no man can work. *' 

To sensual persons, hardly any thing is what it appears to 
be : and whftt flatters most, is always farthest from reality. 
There are voices which sing around them, but whose strains 
• allure to ruin. There is a banquet spread, where poison is 
in every disn.. There is a coucn which invites them to re- 
pose ; out to slumber upon it, is death. 

If we would judge whether a man is really happy, it is 
not solely to his houses and lands, to his equipage and his 
retinue we are to look. Unless we could see farther, and 
discern what joy, or what bitterness, his heart feels, we can 
pronounce little concerning him. 

The book is well written ; and I have perused it withplea- 
etire and profit It shows, first, that true devotion is ra- 
tional ana well founded ; next, that it is of the highest im« 
portance to every other part of religion and virtue ; and, 
taajdy, that it is most conducive to our happiness. 

There is certainly no greater felicity, than to be able to 
look back on a life usefully and virtuously employed ; to 
trace our own progress in existence, by such tokens as excite 
neither shame nor sorrow. It ouzht therefore to be the 
care of those who wish to pass the last hours with comfort, 
to lay u|i such a treasure oT pleasuig ideas, as shall support 
the expenses of that time, which is to depend wholly upon the 
^^nd already acquired. 

CAop. 1. Select SenienceMf |*e. St 


WHAT avails the show of external Hbertyi to one who haa 
lost the government of himself? 
He that cannot live well to-day, (says Martial,) will be leas 
qualified to live well to>morrow. 

Can we esteem that man prosperous* who is raised to a 
aituation which flatters his passions, but which corrupts hia 
principles, disorders his temper, ana finally oversets iiia vir- 

What misery does the vicious man secretly endure !— 
Adversity ! ho w blunt are all the arrows of thy quiver, in 
coxnparison with tliose of guilt 1 

When we have no ph^asure in goodness, we nruiy with cei^ 
taintv conclude the reason to he, that our pleasure is all de- 
liveafrom an opposite quarter. 

How strangely are the opinions of men altered, by a 
change in their condition ! 

HovfJusLuy have had reason to be thankful, for beiny; disap* 
pointed in designs which tiiev earnestly pursued, but which, 
if successfully accj nplisl^'a, they have afterwards seen 
(Would have occasioned tlicir ruin ! 

What are the actions whicii ;iirord in the remembrance a 
^rational satisfaction ? \re they the pursuits of sensual pk«- 
lure, the riots ol jollity, or thd displnj s of show and vanity ? 
No : I appeal to your hearts, my friends, if what you recol* 
hct with most pleasure, are not the innocent, the virtuous, 
the honourable parts of you** past life. ' 

The present employment of time should frequently be an 
(Object of tliouglit About wliat are we wow busied ? What 
is the ultimate 8ct»pe of our prest^nt pursuits and cares ? Can 
we justify them to ourselves ? Are tiiey likely to produce any 
thing that will survive tlie moment, and bring forth some 
fruit for futurity ? 

Is it not strange, (savs an ingenious writer,) tliat soma 
persons should be so delicate as not to bear a disagreeable 
picture in the house, and yet, by their behaviour, force eve- 
ry face they see about them, to wear tlie gloom of imeaai* 
Dess and discontent ? 

If we arc now in health, peace and safety ; without any 
particular or uncoimnon evils to aiflict our condition ; what 
more can wc rc^isonably look for in this vain and uncertain 
world ? How little can the greatest prosperity add to such a 
atate ? Will any future situation ever make us happy^ if now. 
with so few causes of grie^ we imaeine ourselves n^js^rabfeT 
The evil lies in the state or our naiao, nut in our <x»Qdition ot 


ofthM tatraductioD, the ConpOcr ttfhflf •»« Ubcr^H 
fceoimnfod to tracben, «> cxer»**f6 ibeir iwpils fak dtoeoverin^ and ezpl&iniii| 
Hm emphatie wordi, mmI the prooer lonet and pauses, of ereiy portion aitigiiii 
them to read, prevloiid/ to ibeir being called out to the performance. TfasM 
preparatniy leuops, in which thej should be regularly eiamined, win bnpr»f« 
their jHdg;meat and taste; prevent the practice of reading without attentloo It 
Che sal||ect ; and establish a habit of readily disoovering the Meaning, IbMt 
•ad btaa^, of eveiry sentence they perme 


P4RT I. 




DILIGENCE, industrr, and proper improvciBent vf 
timey are material duties of the youn;;. 

The acquisition of knou ledge, is one of the most honour- 
able occupations of youtii. 

Whatever useful or encaging endowments we poasess, 
Tirtue is requisite, in orut:r to tiu'ir shining \\itli proper 

Virtuous jouth gradually brings forward accomplishea 
and flourishmg mamiood. 

Sincerity and trutli form the basis of every virtue. 

Disappointments and distress, are often blessings in db- 

Chance and alteration, form the very essence of the world. 

True happiness is of a retired nature ; an enemy to pomp 
and noise. 

In order to acquire a capacity for happiness, it must he 
our first study to rectify inward diflunlers. 

Whatever purifies, fuiliiles also the heait. 

From our eagerness to grasj), we strangle and destroy 

A temperate spirit, and moderate expectations, are excL'l 
. lent safeguards of the mind, in this uncerUiin and changing 


In tiie first chapter, the comniler has cxhibiteil sentences m a ffreat varieQr 
of ronstmctiou, and in all the durcTAiiy of puactuatioii. If well practised upon, 
he uTPsanies they will fully prepare the young reader for the vnrkms (muses, 
Ibllections, and oimlulaiions or voice, which the succeetling^ pieces require. 
THe Author's •* iiUiglish ExeraisesJ* onder the head ol L*uncUiatioo, will aflwa 
thtt learner additional scope for unprmrini; hiinaelf in reading seutencet and 
ihs varloaslv aQuatnietad. 

t6 Tke Bui^ Iteader. P^t. 

telfinr^ faLsehood, " he reptied, *< Not to be credited wh»i he 
speaKs the truth. ^ 

L'Estrange, in hi3 Fables, telb us that a number of frolic 
■ome boys were one day watching frogs, at the side of a 
pond ; and that, as any of them put their heads above tiie 
water, they pelted them down a^adn with stones. One of 
&e frogs, appealing to the humanity of the boys, made this 
itriking observation ; ^ Children, ^rou do not consider, tibat 
tiiough this may be sport to you, it is death to us.'* 

Smly, the ^eat statesman of France, always retained at 
his table, in his most prosperous days, tne same frugality to 
which he had been^ accustomed in early life. He was fre- 
quently reproached by the courtiers, foT this simplicity ; but 
he used to reply to them, in the words of an ancient pniioso- 
pher : ^ If the guests are men of sense, there is sidficient 
lor them : if they are not, I can very well dispense with 
their company. '* 

Socrat^ though primarily attentive to the culture of his 
mind, was not ni^ugent of his external appearance. His 
cleanliness resulted from those ideas of order and decency, 
which governed all his actions ; and the care which he took 
o f his heahh, from his desire to preserve his mind free and 

EminenlJy pleasing and honourable, was the friendship 
between David and Jonathan. ^ i am distressed for thee, 
my brother Jonathan, " said the plaintive and surviving Da- 
yid ; ** very pleasant hast thou been to me : thy love for me 
was wonderrul ; passing the love of women." 

Sir Philip Sidney, at the battle near Zutphen, was wound- 
ed by a musket ball, which broke the bone of his thigh. 
He was carried about a mile and a half to the camp ; and 
bdng faint with the loss of blood, and probably narched with 
thirst through the hctit of the weather, he called for drink. 
It was immediately brought to him : but, as he was putting 
the vessel to his mouth, a poor wounded soldier, who hap- 
pened at that instant to be carried by him, looked up to it 
with wishful eyes. The eallant and generous Sidney, took 
the bottle from his mouth, and delivered it to the soldier, 
•tying, "-Thy necessity is yet greater than mine.'*' 

Alexander the Great, demanded of a pirate, whom he had 
taken, by what right he infested the seas ? " By the same 
right, " replied he, *^ that Alexander enslaves the world. But 
i am called a robber, because I have only one small vessel ; 
and he is styled a conquejnor, because he commands great 
fleets and armies." We too often judge of men by the splen- 
ilkiW) and iiot bf (h# OMiit Of their acuoiM. 

AjxtDimiis Piiii, the Roman Emperor^ wm «b aniaMe' afKl 
cood man. When any of his courtiers attempted to'inflama* 
mok with apaarion for military K^ry, he used to answer: 
^ That he more desired the preaervatioQ of one subject^ tlian 
the destruction of a thousand enemies." 

Men are too often ingenious in maldng themselTes nuser- 
able, by amravating to their own fancy, beyond bounds, all 
the evils which they endure. They compare themselves with 
none but those whom they imagine to be more happv ; and 
eompiain, tliat upon them alone nas fallen the whole load of 
human sorrows. Would they look with a more impartial 
eye on the world, they would see themselves surrounded 
with sufferers ; and And that they are only drinking out of 
that mixed cup, which Providence has prepared for alLr^** 1 
will restore thy daughter again to life," said an eastern sage, 
to a luinoe who grieved inunoderately for the loss of abelov«> 
ed child, ** provided thou art able to engrave on her tomb, 
the names of three persons who have never momned." Tb« 
prince made inquinr after such persons ; but found the inqui- 
ry vain, and was silent. 


HE that hath no rule over his own spirit, Is like a city 
that is broken down, and without walls. 

A soft answer tumeth away wrath ; but grievous words stir 
up anger. 

Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox 
and hatred therewith. 

Pride goeth before destroetion ; and a haughty spirit be- 
fore a fall. 

Hear counsel, and receive instruction, that thou mayest 
be truhr wise. 

Faitnful are the wounds of a friend ; but the kisses of an 
enemy are deceitful. Open rebuke, is better than secret love, 

Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit ? There is more 
hope of a fool, than of him. 

He that is riow to anger, is better than the mighty ; and 
he that ruleth his spirit, man he that taketh a city. 

He that hath pity on the poor, lendeth to the I|ord ; that 
which he hath given, will he pay him again. 

If thine enemv be hungry, give him oread to eat ; and if ha 
oe tliirsty, give nim water to drink. 

He that planted the ear, shall he not hear ? He that formr* 
ed the eye, shall he not see ? 

I have been young, and now I am old ; yet h^w I n«var 
. seen the righteous icHnaken, nor his seed begging bread* 

2%' m En^k ttmdkr: Part t. 

It is t)ett«r to be a door-keeper id the house of the liord, 
than to a well m the tents of wickedness. 

I have seen the wicked in great power ; and spreadhiff 
hims^f like a ereen bay-tree. Yet he passed away : 1 
sought him» but he could not be found. 
, Happy is the man that findeth wisdom. Liength of days 
is in her right hand ; and in her left hand, riches and hon 
our. Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and al! her path» 
ftre peace. 

Ho w^ood and how pleasant it is for brethren to d well togeth- 
er in unity ! It is like precious ointment : Like the dew of Her- 
mon, and the dewthat descended upon the mountains of Zion. 

The sluggard will not plough oy reason of the cold ; he 
shall therefore beg in harvest ; and nave nothing. 

I went by the field of the slothful, and by the vineyard of 
the man void of undei*standing : and, lo ! it was all grown 
over with thorns ; nettles had covered ite face ; and the stone 
Wall was broken down. Then I saw, and considered it 
well ; I looked upon it, and received instruction. 

Honourable age is not that which standeth in length of 
time ; nor that which is measured by number of years : — 
But wisdom is the grey hair to man, and an unspotted life is 
old age. 

Solomon^ my son, know thoa the God of thy ftithers ; 
4nd serve him with a f>erfeet he^rt, and mth a wilKng mind. 
If tliou seek him, he will be found of thee : but If thou forsake' 
lum, he will cast thee off for ever. 


THAT every diay has its pains and sorrows is uiuTersally 
experien&dj and almost universally confessed. But 
let us not attend only to mournful truths : if we lo<* impar- 
tially about US; we snalt find, that every day has likewise its 
pleasures and its joys. 

We should cherish sentiments of charity towards all men. 
Tlie Author of all good,* nourishes much piety and virtue in 
hearts that are unknown to us ; and beholds repentance 
ready to spring up among many, whom we consider as rep* 
robates. . 

No one ought to consider himself as insignificant in the 
^ght of his Creator. In our several 'stations, we are all sent 
forth to be labourers in the vineyard of our lieavenly Father. 
Every man has his work allotted, his talent committed to 
him ; l?y the due inaprovement of which, he may, in one 
^y 01* other serve God, promote virtue, and be useful in 
the world. 

'ttie lore ofpniae should be preserved under proper nib 
ordination to tne principle of duty. In itself, it is a useful mo- 
tire to action ; but vrhen allowed to extend its influence too 
fiir, it corrupts the whole character, and produces guilt, di« 
nmce, and misenr. To be entirely destitute of it, is a defect 
To be governed by it. is depravity. The proper adjustment 
of the several principles of action in human nature is a mat- 
ter that deserves our highest attention. For when any one 
of them becomes either too weak or too strong, it endangers 
both our virtue and our happiness. 

The desires and passions of a vicious man, having once ob- 
tained an unlimited sway, trample him under their feet 
They make him feel that ne is subject to various^ contradict- 
ory, and imperious masters, who often pull him difierent 
ways. His soid is rendered the receptacle of many repug- 
nant and jarruig dispositions, and resembles some barbarous 
country, cantoned out into aiSerent principalities, which are 
continually waging war on one another. 

Diseases, poverty, disappointment, and shame, are far from 
being, in eveir instance, the unavoidable doom of man. 
They are much more frequently the offspring of his own mis- 
ruided choice. Intemperance cng(>nder8 disease, sloth pro- 
duces poverty, pride creates disappointments, and dishonesty 
exposes to sname. The ungovenied passions of men, be- 
tray them into a thousand foliies ; tlieir follies into crimes ; 
ana their crimes into misfortunes. 

When we reflect on the many distresses which abound in 
humain life, on the scanty proportion of liapniness which any 
man is here allowed to enjoy ; on tlie small difference which 
the ^veraity of fortune makes on tliat scanty proportion ; it 
is surprising that envy should ever have been a prevalent pas- 
sion among men, much more that it should have prevailed 
among Clvistians. Where so niuch is sufiered in <A)mmon, 
little room is left for envy. Thert? is more occasion for pity 
and sympathy, and an inclination to assist each other. 

At our first setting out in life, when yet unacquainted with 

the worid and its snares, when every pleasure enchants with 

its smile, and every object shines m ith the gloss of novelty, 

let us beware of the seducing appearances which surround 

us ; and recollect what otliers have suflered from the power 

of headstrong desire. If we allow any passion, even though 

it be esteemed innocent, to ac(j<iiire an absolute ascendant, 

our inward peace will lie impaired. But if any, which has 

the taint of guilt, take eariy possessor of our mind, wc / 

may date, from that moment, the ruin ^f our tranquillity. 

£very man has some darluig p.'isHioi., which generally 

so The EngliBh Reader. Parti, 

affords the first introduction to vice. The irregular grati- 
fications, into which it occasionally seduces hinpi, appea^' un- 
der the form of venial weaknesses ; and are indulged, iii 
the beginning, with scrupulousness and reserve. But, by 
longer practice, tliese restraints weaken, and .the power of 
habit grows. One vice brings in another to its aid. By 
a sort of natural affinity, they connect and entwine them- 
selves together ; till tl^eiv roots coino to be spread wide and 
deep over all the soul. 


T^HENCE arises the misery of this present world? It is 
f f not owing to our cloudy atmosphere, our changing 
seasons, and inclement skies. It is not owing to the debiHty 
of our bodies, nor to the unequal distribution of the ^oods 
of fortune. Amidst all disadvant^iges of this kind, a pure, 
a steadfast^ and enlightened mind, possessed of strong vir 
tue, could enjoy itself in peace, and smile at the impotent 
assaults of fortune and the elements. It is within ourselves 
that misery has fixed its seat Our disordered hearts, our 
guilty passions, our violent prejudice^ and misplaced de- 
sires, are the instruments of the trouble which we endure 
These sharpen the darts which adversity would otherwise 
point in vain against us. 

While the vain and the licentious, are revelling in the 
midst of extravagance and riot, how little do tliey think of 
those scenes of sore distress, which are passing at that mo- 
ment throughout the \% orld ; multitudes struggling for a poor 
subsistence, to support the wife and .children whom they 
love, and who look up to them, witii eager eyes, for that 
bread which tfcey can hardly procure ; multituaes groaning 
under sickness in desolate cott^iges, untended and unmourn- 
ed ; many, apparently in a better situation of life^ pining 
away in secret with concealed griefs ; fmnilies weeping over 
tiie beloved friends whom they have lost, or in all the bitter- 
• ness of anguish, bidding those who are just expiring the last 

Never adventure on too near an approach to what is evil. 
Familiarize not yourselves with it, in the slightest instances, 
without fear. Listen with reverence to every reprehension 
of conscience, and preserve the most quick and accurate sen- 
sibility to right ana wrong. If ever your moral impressions 
begin to decay, and your natural abhorrence of guilt to les- 
sen, you have ground to dread that the ruin of virtue is fast 

by disappointments and trials tlie violence of our pas- 

tJkap 1. Sdect Seniencegy ^ SI 

sions it tfiflMl, and our minds are tormi^! to sofin(;ty mai 
reflection. In the varieties of Hie, occasioned h^ tlie vieis- 
situdes of worldly fortune, ive are inured to hahits both of 
the active and the suSeiini; virtu<*s. How much soever ue 
complain of the vanity of tlie world, fdcts |>Jainiy show, ttiat 
if its vanity were less, it could not answer the purpose of 
salutaiy discipline. Unsatisfactory as it is, its pleasures are 
s^ too apt to corrupt our hearts. How fatal then must the 
consequences have oeen, had it yielded us more complete 
enjoyinent? If, with all its trouoles, we are in danger of 
being too much attached to it, how entirely would it have 
seduced our affections, if no troubles had been mingled with 
its pleasures ? 

£i seasons of distress or difficulty, to abandon ourselves 
to dejection, carries no mark of a great or u worthy mind. 
Instead of sinking under trouble, and declaring ^ that bis 
soul IB weary of hfe," it becomes a wise and a good man, 
in the evil day, with firmness, to maintab his post ; to beai 
up aeaiiist the storm ; to have recourse to those advantages 
whk£, in the worst of times, an^ always left to integrity and 
yirtue ; and never to give up the hope tiiat better (hiys may 
yet arise. 

How many young persons have, at first, set out in the world 
with excellent dispositions of heart ; generous, charitible, 
and humane ; kina to their friends, and «amiable among all 
witii whom they had intercourse ! And yet, how often have 
we seen all those fair appearances, unhappily blasted in tiie 
progress of life, merely through the influence of loose and 
corrupting pleasures ; and those very persons, who promised 
once to be olessings to the world, sunk down, in tiie end, to 
be the burden and nuisance of society. 

The most common propensity of mankind, is, to store fu- 
turity >vith whatever is agreeable to them ; espitcially in those 

Seriods of life, when imagination is lively, and hope is ar- 
ent Lookiii^ forward to the year now beginning, they are 
ready to promise themsehres much, from the foundations of 
prosperity which they have laid ; from the friendsliins and 
connexions which they have secured ; and from the pums ci 
conduct which they have formed. Alas ! bow deceitful do 
flA these dreams of happiness often prove ! While many are 
saying in secret to their hearts, ^ To-morrow shall be as this 
day, and more abundantiy," we are obliged, d return, to 
say to them ; ^ Boast not yourselves of to-mon w ; for yo 
know not what a day may bring forth '" 

92 Tltf Englhh Reader. Pari 1. 



JVb rank orpossessUms can make tke guiUtf mind happy, 

DIONYSIUS, the tyrant of Sicily, was far fn)m being 
happy, though he possessed great riclies, and a!f tlie 
pleasures which wealth and power could procure. Damo- 
cles, one of his flatterers, deceived by those specious appear* 
mces of happiness, took occasion to compliment him oa die 
extent of lus power, his treasures, and royal magnificence ; 
and declared that no monarch had ever been greater or hap- 
pier than Dionysius. 

t " Hast thou a mind, Damocles," says the king, ** to 
taste this happiness ; and to know, by experience, what the 
enjoyments are, of which thou hast so high an idea ?" Damo- 
cles, with joy, accepted the offer. The king ordered that a 
royal banquet should be prepared, and a gilded sofa, covered 
with rich embroidery, placed for his favourite. Side-b^rds, 
loaded with gold and silver plate of immense value, were 
arranged in tne apartment 

3 Pages of extraordinary beauty, were ordered to attend 
his table, and to obey his commands 'with the utmost readi- 
ness, and the most profound submission. Fragrant oint- 
ments, chaplets of flowers, and rich perfumes, were added 
to the entertainment The table was loaded with the most 
ex(]uisite delicacies of every kind. Damocles, intoxicated 
witn pleasure, fancied himself amongst superior beings. , 

4 6ut in the mid$<t of all this happiness, as he lay indul- 
ging himself in stiite, he sees let dow:n from the ceiling, ex- 
actly over his head, a glittering sword, hung by a single 
hair. The sight of impending destruction, put a speedy end 
to his joy and revelling. The pomp of his attendance, the 
glitter oY the carved plate, and the delicacy of the viands, 
cease to afibrd him any pleasure. 

5 He dreads to stretch forth hht hand to the table. He 
throws off the garland of roses. He hastens to remove from 
his dangerous situation ; and earnestly entreats the king to 
restore him to his former humble condition, having no desire 
to enjoy any lonj^er a happiness so terrible. 

6 Bv this device, Dionysius intimated to Damocles, how 
miseral)le he was in the midst of all his treasures ; and m 
possession of all the honours and cnjovments which royalty 
eould beetow. cicero. 

*• AwimMvvv z^iccest 


n4ingt of exUnud condition isqfUnadverHhv^^ 

IN the days of Jorain, king of Israel, flourisbed tltepropn- 
et Eliaha. His character was so eminent, and his fame 
so widely spread, that Benhadad, the kin^ of Syria, thoueh 
an idolater, sent to consult him, concerning the issue of a 
disteiiiper which threatened his life. The messenger em- 
ployed on this occasion, was Hasael, who appears to haye 
been one of the princes, or chief men of the Syrian court 

2 Charged with rich gifts from the kinj;, he presents him- 
self before the prophet; and accosts bun in terms of the 
highest respect During the conference which they held 
together, Eiisha ftxedhis eyessteadfiistly on the countenance * 
of Haaael, and discerning, by a prophetic spirit, his future 
tyranny and cruelty, he could not contain himself from 
burstine into a 4ood of tears. 

B When Hasael, in surprise, inquired into the cause of 
tills sudden emotion, the prophet plainly informed him of the 
crimes and barbarities, which he foresaw that be would af- 
terwards commit The soul of Hazael abhorred, at this 
time, the thoughts of cntelty, Unoorrupted, as yet, by 
ambition or greatness, his inifignation rose at being oiought 
capable of the savage actions which the prophet had men- 
tioned ; and, with much warmth, he replies : ^ But what ? is 
thy servant a dog, that he should do this great thing ?" 

4 Eiisha makes no return, but to point out a remarkable 
change, which was to take place in his condition ; ^ The 
XiOrd hath shown me, that tnou shidt be king over Syria. ^ 
In course of time, all that had been predicted, came to pass. 
Hazael ascended the throne, and ambition took possesion of 
lus heart "" He smote the children of Israel iA aU their 
coasts. He oppressed them during all tiie dajni of king Je- 
hoahaz :" ana, from what is left on record of his actions, he 
plainly appears to have proved, what the prophet foresaw 
Bim to be, a man of violence, cruelty, and blood. 

5 In this passage of history, an object is presented, which 
deserves our serious attention. We behold a man who, in 
'me state of life, could not look upon certain crimes without 
surprise and horror ; who knew so little of himself, as to 
believe it impossible for him ever to be concerned in com- 
mitting them ; that same man, by a change of coiidi&>n, 
and an ung ded state of mind, transformed in aH his sen- 
timeots; a^ shs rose io grosutnass, rising ali#io guilt; 

M TlrEiif St* Aeoffer. Ponfl. 

till at latt h« completed that whole charaettr of fanqtuty, 
«vhich he once detested*]u 


Haman ; dr^ the misery ofprtd/t. 

AHASUERUS, who is supposed to be the prince kaowft 
among the Greek histonans by the name of Artaxerzea, 
had advanced to the chief disnitr in his kingdom, Hainan, 
an Amaiekite, who inherited all the ancient enmity of his 
race, to the Jewish nation. He appears, from what is re- 
corded of him, to have been a very wicked minister. 
Raised to sreatness without merit, he employed his power 
solely for tne gratification of his passions. 

2 As the honours which he possessed were next t6 royal, 
his pride was every day fed with that servile homa|;e. which 
is peculiar to Asiatic courts, and all the servants of tne ks^g 
prostrated themselves before him. In the midst of this gen- 
eral adulation, one person only stooped not to Haman. 

d This was Moraecai the Jew ; who, knowing this Ama* 
leldte to be an enemy to the people of God^ and, with virtu- 
ous indignationu despising that insolence or prosperity witk 
which he saw nim lifted up, ^ bowed not, nor did him rcfr- 
erence." On this appearance of disrespect from Mordeou, 
Haman ^was fiill of wraths but be thought scorn tolar 
hands on Mordecai alone." Personal revenge, was notsuT* 
fident to satisfy him. 

4 So violent and black were his passions, that he resolved 
to exterminate the whole nation to which Mordecai belonged* 
Abusing, for his crud purpose, the favour of lus credulous 
sovereign, he obtiuned a decree to be sent forth, that, 
against a certain day, all the Jews throughout tiie Persiaa 
dominions, should be put to the sword. 

5 Meanwhile, confiaent of success, and blind to approach- 
ing ruin, he continued exulting in nis prosperity. Invited 
by Ahasuerus to a royal j^aiiauet, which Esther the queen 
had prepared, "" he went fortn that day joyful, and with a 
glad neart " But behold how slight an incident, was suffi* 
cient to poison his joy ! As he went forth, he saw Mordecai 
in the Icing's gate ; and observed, that he stiU refused to do 
him homage. *^ He stood not up, nor was moved for him;" 
although he well knew the formidable designs, which Haman 
was preparing to execute. 

6 One private man, who despised his greatness, and dis- 
dained submission, while a whole kingdom trembled before 
him : one spirit, which tiie utmost stretch of his power 
eeuki neither subdna nor humble^ blasted his triumplift 

aUm.t. Narrmi&t Pieee9. M 

Hm whole sold was shaken with a storm of piMkm. Wrath 
pride, and dedre of revenge, rose into fury. With difficu^ 
t^ he resb^nt^ himself in public ; but as soon as he came to 
ins own house, lie was forced to disclose the agony of his 

7 He gathered together his friends and family, with Ze-» 
resh his wife. ^ He told them of the glory of his riches, aiid 
tho multitude of his children, and of all the things whereio 
the king had promoted him ; and how he had advanced him 
above the princes and servants of the king." He said, more- 
over, ^^ Yea, Esther the queen, suffered no man to come in 
with the king, to the banquet that she had prepared, but 
myself ; and to-morrow also am I invited to her %vith the 
king." After all this preamble, what is the conclusion? 
** Yet adl this availeth me nothing, so long as I see Mordecai 
the Jew, sitting at the kine's ^ate." 

8 The sequel of Hanuurs history, I shaU not now pursue* 
It might afford matter for mu<^ instruction, by the conspic* 
uous justice of God in his fall and punishment But con- 
templating only the singular situation, hi which the expces- 
aons just ciuoted present him, and the violent agitation of his 
mind whicn they display, the following reflections naturaUy 
arise : How miserable is vice, when one guilty passion cre- 
ates so much torment 1 how unavailing is prosperity, wheii« 
in the height of it, a single disappointment, can destroy th* 
relish of all its pleasures ! ho w weak is human nature, which 
in the absence of real, is thus prone to form to itsdf ima- 
ginary woes! BiiAi&i 


Lady Jane Gray, 

THIS excellent personage, was descended from the roy- 
al line of Eiidand by both her parents. She was care^ 
fully educated in Uie principles of the reformation ; and her 
wisdom and virtue, rendered her a shining example to her 
sex. But it was her lot to continue only a short period on 
this stage of being ; for, in eariy life, she fell a sacrifice to 
the n'lid ambition of the duke of Northumberland ; who 
pi omoted a marriage between her and his son, lord Guilford • 
Dudley ; and raised her to the throne of En^and, in oppo- 
aitiou to the rights of Mary and Elizabeth. 
2 At the time of their marriage, she was only about eigh- 
t teen years of age ; and her husband was also very youBg: a 
eeason of life very unequal to oppose Ihe interested views of 
uthAaad aiqyiriiig men; who» uirtMilofexpoBqKtiMai !• 

Sb The EngU9h Reader. fori t. 

danger^ should bare been the protectors of their innocence 
and youth. ' 

8 This extraordinary young person, betddes the solid en^ 
Jowments of piety and Tirtue, possessed ^e most en^a^ng 
disposition, the most accomphshed parts i^ and being <n 
an equal age with king Edward VI. she had receivcni all 
her education with him, and seemed even to possess a great- 
er facility in acquiring every part of manly ana classical litera- 

4 She had attained a knowledge of the Roman and Greek 
languages, as well as of several modern tonguesi^ had passed 
most of her time in an application to learning ; and expressed 
a great indifference for other occupations and amusements 
usual witli her sex and station. % 

5 Roger Ascham, tutor to the lady Elizabeth, having at 
one time paid her a visit, found her employed in reaojng 
Plato, while the rest of the family were engaged in a party 
of hunting in the park j^nd upon his admiring the singularity 
of her choice, she told him, that she ^ received more plea- 
sure from that author, than others could reap from all tfaeir 
sport and gaiety." 

6 Her heart, replete with this love of literature and seri- 
ous studies^ and with tenderness towards her husband, who 
was deserving of her affection, l^ad never opened itself to the 
flattering allurements of ambition-; and the information o« 
lier advancement to the throne, was by no means agreeable 
to her. She even refused to accept the crown ; pleaded the 
preferable right of the two princesses; expressed her dread 
of the consequences attending an enterpnse so dangerous, 
not to say so criminal ; and desired to remain in that private 
station in which she was bom. 

7 Overcome at last with the entreaties, rather than rea- 
sons, of her father and father-in-law, and, above all, of her 
husband, she submitted to their will, and was prevaUed on 
to relinquish her own judgment. But her elevation was of 
very short continuance. > The nation declared for queen 
Mary ; and the lady Jane, after wearing the vain pageantry 
of a crown during ten days, returned to a private lite, with 
muoh more satisfaction, tnan she felt when royalty was ten- 

• dered to her. 

8 Queen Mary, who appears to have been incapable of 
generosity or clemency, aetemnned to remove every per- 
son, from whom the least danger could be appr<hhended. 
Warning was, therefore, iQven to lady Jane to prepare for 

• *• A1««#VW»«VC A •C«,C«* 

had been exposed^ rendered no unwelcome news to her. 

9 The i^ue^r/i bigoted zeiil, under colour of tender tnercy 
to th« pnsoner's soul, induced her to send priests, who 
molested her with perpetual disputation ;and even a reprieve 
of three days was granted her, in hopes that she would be 
persuaded, during that time, to pay. by a timely conrersion 
to popery, some regard to her eternal welfare. 

10 Lady Jane had presence of mind, in those melancholy 
circumstances, not only to defend her religion by solid argu* 
ments, but also to write a letter to her sister, in the Greeic 
language : in which, besides sending her a copy of the Scrip* 
tures in that tongue, she exhortecfher to mamtain, in ever^ 
fortune, a like steady perseyerance. ^ 

11 On the day of her execution, her husband, lord Guil* 
ford, desired permission to see her ; but she reftised her con* 
sent, and sent him word, that the tenderness of their part- 
ing would overcome the fortitude of both ; and would too 
much unbend their minds from that constancy, which their 
apjproachingend required of them.S Their separation, she 
sud, would oe only for a moment ; mid they would soon re- 
join each other in a scene, where their affections would be 
for ever united ; and where death, disappointment, and mis- 
fortunes, could no longer have access to tnem, or disturb their 
eternal felicity. 

13 It had been intended to execute the lady Jane and lovd 
Guilford together on the same scaffol<L at Tower-hill ; but 
the council, dreading tiie compassion of the people for their 
youth, beauty, innocence, and noble birth, changed their 
orders, and gave directions Uiat she should be beheaded witb-< 
in the verge of the Tower. 

IS She saw her htisband led to execution ; and, having 
given him from the window some token of her remembnunce, 
she waited with tranquillity till her own appointed hour 
should brin^ her to a luce fate. She even saw his headless 
body carried back in a cart ; and found herself more confirm- 
ed by the reports which she heard of the <y^nstancy of his 
end, than shaken by so tender and melancholy a i^)ectacle 

14 Sir John Gaee, constable of the Tower, when he led 
her to execution, desired her to bestow on him some small 
mtisent, which he might keep as a perpetual memorial of her 
Slie gave him her table-boOK, in whidh she had just written 
three sentences, on seeing her husband's dead body ; one in 
Greek, anotlier in Latin, a third in EngKsh. 

lb The )>urport of t 9 was, ^ that human justioe was 
against his body, but ti ^vme Mercy would be &vourable 
ti» his soul ; and that ' r iault deserved ptuustaMDl, bar 

SS The English Reader. tan I. 

youth, at least, and her unprudence, were worthy of excuse ; 
and that God and postreity, she trusted, would show her 
fiiTOur." On the scanold, she made a speech to the by-stand- 
ers, in which the mildness of her disposition led her to take 
the blame entirely on herself, without uttering one complaint 
against the seventy with which she had been treated. 

16 She said, that her ofTencel was, not that she had laid 
her hand upon the crown, but that she had not rejected it 
with sufficient constancy ; that she had less erred through 
ambition, tiian through reverence to her parents, whom she 
had been taught to respect and obey : that she willindy re- 
ceived death, as the only satisfaction which she could now 
make to the injured state ; and though her infringement of 
the laws had been constradned, she would show, by her vol- 
untary submission to their sentence, that she was desirous to 
atone for that disobedience, into which too much filial piety 
had betrayed her I that she had justly deserved this punish- 
ment, forheing xxmde the instrument, though the unwilling 
instrument, of the ambition of others : and that the story of 
her life, she hoped, might at least be useful, by proving that 
innocence excuses not great misdeeds, if they tend any way 
to the destruction of the commonwealth. 1^ 

17 After uttering these words, she causied herself to be 
disrobed by her women, and with a steady, serene counte- 
nance, submitted herselfto the executioner. hume. 


Ortogrvl ; or^ tkt vanity ofrichts, 

AS Ortognil of Basra, was one day wandering alone the 
streets of Bagdat, muiung on the varieties of merchan- 
dise which the shops opened to his view ^ and observing the 
different occupations which busied the multitude on every 
side, he was awakened from the tranquillity of meditation, 
by a crowd that obstructed his passage. He raised his eyes, 
and saw the chief vizier, who, having returned from the di- 
van, was entering his palace. 

S Ortogrul nunglea with the attendants ; and being sup- 
posed to have some petition for the vizier, was permitted to 
enter. He surveyed the spaciousness of the apartments, 
admired the walls hung witn golden tapestry, and the floors 
covered witn silken carpets ; and deBpised«tne simple neat- 
ness of hb own little habitation. «^ 

3 ** Surely," said he to himself, " this palace is the seat of 
happioess ; where [Measure succeeds to pleasure, and dis- 
eoomt and sorrow, can have no admission. Whatever naL- 
lure hM provided for the delight of sense, 18 her« spread forth 

CAop. 2. Narrative Ptvcea. S9 

to be enjoyed* Wluit caa mortals hope or fanagine^ whieh 
the master of this palace, 4>as not obtained ? The dishes of 
luxury, CQTer his table I the voice of harmony lulls him in 
his bowers ; he breathes the fragrance of the groves of Jaya^ 
and sleeps upon the down of the cygnets of the Ganses. 

4 He speaks, and his mandate is obeyed ; he wishes* and 
his wish IS gratified ; all, whom he sees, oliey him, ana all« 
whom he hears, flatter him. How dinerent, O Ortogrul, 
is thy condition, who art doomed to the perpetual torments 
of unsatisfied desire ;. and who hast no amusement in thy 
power, that can withholdthee from thy own reflections ! 

5 They tell thee that thou art wise ; but what does wisdom 
avail with poverty ? None will flatter the poor ; and tlie viise 
have very little power of flatteijng themselves. That man is 
surely the most wretched of the sons of wretchedness, who 
live? with his own faults and follies always before him ; and 
who has none to reconcile him to himself oy praise and vene- 
ration. I have long sought content, and nave not found it ; 
I will from this moment endeavour to be ricli." 

6 Full of his new resolution, he shut himself in his cham- 
ber for six months, to deliberate how he should craw rich. 
He sometimes piurposed to offer himself as a counsellor to one 
of the kings in India ; and at others resolved to dig for dia- 
monds in me mines of Golconda. 

7 One day, after some hours passed in violent fluctuation 
of opinion, sleep insensibly Vized him in his chair. Ha 
dreamed that he was ranging a desert country, in search of 
some one that rai^ht teach him to' grow rich ; and, as he stooa 
on the top of a hiU, shaded with cypress, in doubt whither 
to direct nis steps, his father appeared on a sudden sttt riding 
before hira. ** Ortogrul," saia the old man, " I know thy 
^rplexity ; listen to thy father ; turn thine eye on the oppo 
site mountain." 

8 Ortogrul looked, and saw a torrent tumbling down the 
rocks, roaring with the nobe of thunder, sfnd scattering its 
foam on tiie impending woods'. ^ Now," said his fatner. 
^ behold the valley that lies between the hills." Ortogrul 
inokf'd, and espied[ a little well, out of which issued a small 
rivulet. " Tell me, now," said his father, " dost thou wish 
for Hiiddeu aflluence, that may pour upon thee like the moiui- 
tain torrent ; or for a slow ana gradual increase, resembling 
tlie rill gilding from the well ?" 

9 " Let me be quickly rich," said Ortogrul ; « let the gal» 
den stream be quick ana violent" **^ Look round thee," said 
bis father, " once again." Ortogrul looked, and perceived 
the channel of^bM torrent dry and dusty ; but foUowiog the 

The EngUth Reader. Pari 1 

riTulet from the well, he traced it to a wide lake, which the 
tupply, slow and constant, kept always full. He awoke^ 
and <{etennined to grow rich hy silent profit, and persever- 
mf; industry. 

^ 10 Having sold his patrimony, he engaged in merchan- 
dise ; and in twenty ^ears, purchased lands, on which^ he 
raised a house, equal m sumptiiousness^o that of the vizier ; 
to this mansion he invited ail the ministers of pleasure, ex*- 
pecting to enjoy all the felicity which he had imagined riches 
able to afford. Leisure soon made him weary of himself, 
and he longed to be persuaded that he was great and hap- 
py He was courteous and libera] : he cave all that ap- 
pnmched him, hopes of pleasing him, and all who should 
please him, hopes of being rewarded. Every art of praise 
was tried, and every source of adulatory fiction, was ex- 

11 Orto^ul heard his flatterers without delight, because 
he found himself imable to believe them. His own heart 
told him its frailties ; his own understanding, reproached 
him with his faults. " How lon^," said he, with a deep 
sigh, ^ have I been labouring in vain to amass wealth, whicn 
at last is useless ! Let no man hereafter wish to be rich, who 
is already too wise to be flattered." i>&» johnsoit. 


2%c HUl of Science. 

IN that se^on bf the year, when the serenity of the sky, 
the various fruits which cover the ground, the discoloured 
foliag^ of the trees, and all the sweet, but fading graces of 
inspirit]^ autumn, open the mind to benevolence, and dis- 
pose itror contemplation, y[ was wandering in a beautiful and 
romantic country, tiU curiosity began to give way to weari- 
ness ; and 1 sat down on the fragment of a rock overgrown 
with moss ; where the mstling of the failing leaves, the dash- 
in j^ of waters, and the hum of the distant city, soothed my 
mind into a most perfect tranquillity ; and sleep insensibly 
stole upon ine, as I was indulging the agreeable reveries, 
which the objects around me naturally inspired. 

2 I immediately found myself in a vast extended plain, in 
the middle of which arose a mountain, higher than Iniad be- 
fore any conception of. It w:is covered with a multitude of 
people, chiefly youth, many of whom pressed forward with 
the Hveliest expression of ardour in tlieir countenance, though 
the way was, in many places, steep and dithcult. 

3 I observed, th^t those, who had just begun to dimb the 
^ifly tho4|ght themselves not far firom the top ; but as toey 

CAdtp, 3« Narrome Pfeoet. 41 

proceeded, new hlUs were continually rising to thellr y\em \ 
and the summii of the highest they could oefore disceniy 
seemed but the foot of another, till the mountain at length 
appeared to lose Itself in the clouds. 

4 As I was gazing on these things with astonishment, a 
friendly instructer suddenly appeared : ** The mountain be- 
fore thee.^ said he, ** is the Hill of Science. On the top. is 
the temple of Truth, whose head is above the clouds, ana a 
▼eil of pure light covers her face. Observe the progress of 
her votaries ; be silent and attentive." 

5 After I had noticed a variety of objects, I turned my 
•ye towards the multitudes who were clunbing the steep as- 
cent, and observed amongst them a youth of a lively look, a 
]>iercing eye, and something fiery and irregular in all his mo- 
tions. His name was Gemus. He darted like an eagle up 
the mountain, and left his companions gazing after him wim 
envy and admiration ; but his progress was unequal, and 
interruDted bv a thousand caprices. 

6 When rleasure warbled in the valley, he mingled in 
her train. When Pride beckoned towards the precipice, 
he ventured to the tottering edge. He delighted in devious 
and untried paths, and made so many excursions from the 
road, that his feebler compamons often outstripped him. I 
observed that the Muses beneld him with partiality; but 
Truth often frowned, and turned aside her face. 

^ 7 While Genius was thus wasting his strength in eccentric 
' flights, I saw a person of very difft^reot appearance, named 
Application. He crept along with a slow and unremitting 
pace, his eyes fixed on the top of the mountain, patientiy 
removing every stone that obstructed his wajr, till he saw 
most of those below him, who had at first derided his slow 
and toilsome progress. 

8 Indeed, there were few who ascended the hiU with 
equal and uninterrupted steadiness ; for, besides the diffi- 
culties of the way, they were continually solicited to turn 
aside, by a numerous crowd of Ajipetites, Passions, and 
Pleasures, whose importunity, when once complied with, 
they became less and less able to resist : and though they of- 
ttin returned to the path, the asperities of the road were 
more severely felt ; the hill appeared more steep and nig- 
ge<l^ the fruitS) wliicli were wholesome and refreshing 
spemed harsh and ill tasted : their siglit grew dim ; aim 
their feet tript at every littie oostruction. 

9 I saw, witii some surprise, that the Muses, whose hi^ 
tiness was to cheer and fucouraj^e those who were toilinn 
up the aaceoti would often sing in the bowers of PleawriW 


4S The EngK^ Reader. Par^ i. 

ftnd afCoompAny those who were enticed away at the call of 
the Passions. They accompanied them, however, but a 
fittle way ; and always forsook tliem when they lost sight of 
tiie hill. The tyrants then doubled their chains opon liic 
unhappy captives ; and led them away, without resistamie, 
to tibie cells of Ignorance, or the mansions <^ Miseiy. 

10 Amongst the innumerable seducers, who were endeav- 
ouring to draw away the votaries of Truth from the path of 
sdence, there was one, so little formidable in her appear- 
ance, and so gentle andknguid in her attempts, that f should 
scarcely have taken notice of her, but for the numbers she 
had imperceptibly loaded with her chains. * 

11 Indolence, (for so she was called,) far from proceedinz 
to open hostilities, did not attempt to turn their feet out c^r 
the path, but contented herself with retarding their pro 

Sress ; and the purpose she could not force them to ahan 
ouj she persuaded them to delay. Her touch had a pow- 
er like that of the tori>edo, which withered the strength 
of those who came within its influence. Her unhappy cap- 
tives still turned their faces towards the temple, and always 
hoped to arrive there ; but the ground seemed to slide from 
beneath their feet, and they found themselves at the bottom, 
before they suspected they had changed their place. 

1£ The placid serenity, which at first appeared in their 
countenance, changed oy degrees into a melancholy lan- 
guor, which was tmged with deeper and deeper gloom, as 
uiey glided down the stream of Insignificance ; a dark and 
sluggish wafter, which is curled by no breeze, and enlivened 
by no murmur, till it falls into a dead sea, where startled 
passengers are awakened by the shock, and the next mo- 
ment buried in the gulf of Oblivion. 

13 Of all the unhappy deserters from the paths of Science, 
none seemed less able to return than the followers of Indo- 
lence. The captives of Appetite and Passion would often 
seize the moment when their tyrants were languid or asleep, 
to escape from their enchantment ; but the dominion of In- 
dolence was constant and unremitted ; and seldom resisted^ 
till resistance was in vain. 

14- After contemplating these things, I turned my eyes to- 
wards the top of the mountain, where the air was ah^ayg 
pure and exhilarating, the path shaded with laurels and ev- 
ergreens, and the effulgence which beamed from the face of 
Science, seemed to shed a glory round her votaries. Hap- 
py, said I, are they who are permiltted to ascend the moun- 
miM ! But while I was pronouncing thw exclamation, with 

Chmp, 2. Ifarraiive Pieces, 45 

uncommon ardour, I saw,* standing Wside me, a form •f 
diviner features, and a more iH^nign radiance. 

15 "Happier," said she," are tliey whom Virtue conducts 
to the Mansions of Content" " What," &iid I, " does Vir- 
tue then reside in the vale ?" " 1 am found," said siie, " in the 
vale^ and I illuminate the mountain. I cheer the cottager 
at his toil, and inspire the sage at his meditation. 1 rain^Ele 
in, the crowd of cities, and bless the hermit in his cell. ' 1 
haiVe a temple in every heart that owns my influence ; and 
to him that wishes for me, I am already present. Science 
may raise thee to eminence ; but I idone cah guide Uiee to 

16 While Virtue was thus q[>eaking, I stretched out my 
arms towards her, with a vehemence which broke my slum- 
ber. The chill dews were falling around me, and the shades 
of evening stretched over the landscape. I hastened home- 
ward ; and resigned the night to silence and meditation. 


T%thmmty ^fa day ; a fidiire ofhvmanlife. 

O BID AH, the son of Abensma, left the caravanseni ear- 
ly in the morning, and pursued his journey through 
the plains of Indostan. He was fresh and vigorous wttii 
r^t ; he was animated with hope ; he was incited by desire ; 
he walked swiftly forward over the vallie^ and saw th(» 
hills gradually rising before him. 

2 As he passed along, his ears were drliKhted with the 
morning song of the bird of paradise ; he was fanned by the last 
flutters of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew from 
proves of spices. He sometimes contemplated the towering 
height of the oak, monarch of the hills; and sometimes 
caught the gentle fragrance of the primrose, eldest daughter 
of the spring: all his senses were gratified, and a!l ciu*e was 
banished from his heart. 

3 Thus he went on, till the sun approached his meridian, 
and the increased heat preyed upon his strength ; he tlien 
looked round about him for some more commodious path. 
He saw, on his right hand, a grove that seemed to wave its 
shades as a sign of invitation : he entered it, and found tlie 
coolness and verdure irresistil)ly plcasiint 

4 He did not, however, forget whitlier he was travel- 
ling, but found a narrow way, bordered with flowers, whieh 
appeared to have the same" din*ction with the main road ; 
aid 3 pleased, that, by tliis hnpny experiment, he had 
four cans to unite pleasure with business, and to gain the 
l%v of diligence, without suffering its (atigues. 

44 ne EnffKsh Reader. Part 1« 

b He, therefcire, still continued to walk for a time, wkh- 
out tlie least remission of his ardour, except that he was 
sometimes tempted to stop by the music of the birds, which 
the heat had assembled in the shade ; and sometimes amused 
himself with plucking the flowers that covered the banks on 
each side, or tlie fruits that hung upon the branches. 

6 At last, the green path began to decline from its firsi 
tendency, and to wind amon^ hills and thickets, cooled 
with fountains, and murmuring with waterfalls. Here 
Obidah paused for a time, and began to consider whether it 
were longer safe to forsake the known and eommon track ; 
but remembering that the heat was now io its greatest vio- 
lence, and that&e plain was dusty and uneven, he respited 
to pursue the new path^ which he supposed onlj to make a 
few meanders, in compliance with the varieties of the ground, 
and to end at last in the common road. 

7 Having thus cahued his solicitude, he renewed hb pace, 
though he suspected that he was not gaining jproundL This 
uneasiness of his mind, inclined him to lay hold on every neiv 
object, and give way to every sensation that might sooth or 

livert him. He listened to every echo ; he mounted every 

nill for a fresh prospect ; he turned aside to every cascade ; 

and pleased himselr with tracing the course of a gentle river 

that rolled among the trees, ana watered a large region with 

%inumerable circumvolutions. 

8 In these amusements, the hours passed away unaccount- 
ed ; his deviations had perplexed his memory, and he knew 
not towards what point to travel. He stood pensive and 
confused, afraid to go forward, lest he should go wron^, yet 
conscious that the time of loitering was now past. While he 
was thus tortured with uncertamty, the sky was overspread 
with clouds ; the day vanished from before him ; and a sud- 
den tempest gathered round his head. 

9 He was now roused by his danger, to a quick and pain- 
ful remembrance of his folly ; he now saw how happiness is 
lost, ^vhen ease is consulted ; he lamented the unmanly im- 
patience that prompted him to seek shelter in the grove ; and 
despised the petty curiosity that led him on from trifle to tri- 
fle. Whil<; ne was thus reflecting, the air grew blacker, and 
a clap of thunder broke his meditation. 

10 He now resolved to do what; yet remained in his pow- 
er, to tread back the ground which he /had passed, and try 
to And some issue where the wood might open into the plain. 
He prostrated himself on the ground, and recommended his 
lifft to the Lord of Nature. He rose with confidence and 
tranquillity, and presKd on with reiohitioo. The bMSts of 

C%«p. 2. NamUwe Pieces. 4§ 

the desert were m motioii, and on every hand were lieard 
the mingled howb of nu:e and fear, and ravace and ex|Mr»- 
tion. All the horrors of darkness and solitiicte, surroimded 
him : the winds roared in the woods ; and the torrents tum- 
bled from the hills. 

11 Thus forlorn and distressed, he wandered throurii the 
inrild, without knowing whither ne was goins, 0r whether 
he was every moment drawing nearer to safety, or to de* 
struetion. At length, not fear, but labour, began to over* 
come him ; his breath grew short, and his knees trembled ; 
and he was on the point of bring down in resignation to hia 
fate, when he beheld, through tEe brambles, tne glimmer of 
a taper. 

1£ He advanced towards the light : and finding that it pro- 
ceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he called humbly at the 
door, and obtained admission. The old man set before him 
such proviaons as he had collected for himself^ on which 
Olndah fed with eagerness and gratitude. 

Id When the repast was over, '^Tell me," said the hei^ 
mit, ^ by what chance thou hast been brought hither ? I have 
been now twenty years an inhabitant of the wilderness, in 
which I never saw a man before.** Obidah then related 
the oocurrenoes of his journey, without any concealment or 

14 **' Son," said the hennit, '^ let the errors and follies, 
the dangers and escape of this day, nnk deep into thy hearL. 
Rememiber, my son, that human life is ^e journey of a day. 
We rise in the morning of youth,^ fiill of vigour, and full oC 
en>ectation ; we set forward with spirit and nope, with 
gaiety and with diiisence, and travel on a while in the direct 
road of piety, towaras the mansions of rest 

15 In a short tkne, we remit our fervour, and endeavour 
to find some mitigation of our duty, and some more easy 
means of obtaining the same end. We then relax our v^- 
our, and resolve no longer to be terrified with crimes at a m* 
tance ; but rely upon our own constancy, and venture to 
approach what we resolve never to touch. We thus enter 
the bowers of ease, and repose in the shades of security. 

16 Here the heart softens, and vigilance subsides; we are 
then willing to inquire whether another advance cannot be 
made, and whether we may not, at least^ turn our eyes upon 
the gardens of pleasure. We approach them with scruple 
and hesitation ; we enter them, but enter timorous fmd 
trembling ; and always hope to pass through them without 
losing the road of virtue, which, for a while. We keep in our 
ligbt and to wliich we purpose to return. But tflmpt»* 

40 The BngHak Reader^ Part X. 

fion tneeeeds temptetion, and one compliance, prepares tu 
for another ; we in time lose the happiness of innocence, and 
solace our disquiet with sensual gratincations. 

17 By degrees, we let fall the remembrance of our origin- 
al intention, and auit the only adequate object of rational de- 
sire. We entangle ourselves in business, immerge ourselves 
in luxury, fiid rove through the lab^nths of inconstancy ; 
till the darkness of old age be^ns to invade us, and disease 
and anx^ety^ obstruct our way. We then look back upon 
our lives with horror, with sorrow, with repentance ; ancl 
wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not forsaken the 
ways of virtue. 

18 Happy are they^my son, who shall learn from thy ex- 
ample, not to despair ; but shall remember, that, thought 
the day is past, and their strength is wasted, there yet re- 
mains one effort to be made : that reformation is never hope- 
less, nor sincere endeavours ever unassisted ; that the wan* 
derer may at len^ return, after all his errors ; and that he who 
implores strengm and courage from above, shall find danger 
and difficulty give way before him. Go now, my son, to 
thy repose: commit thyself to the care of Omnipotence ; 
and when the morning calls again to toil, begin anew thy 
journey and thy life." de. johnson. 

CHAP. m. 


Tht importance of a good Education, 

I CONSIDER a human soul, without education, Mk« 
marble in the quarry : which shows n«iie of its inherent 
beauties, until the skill of the polisher fetches out the col- 
ours, makes the surface shine, and discovevs every ornamen- 
tal cloud, spot, and vein, that runs through the body of it 
Education, after the same manner, when it works upon a 
noble mind, draws out to view every latent virtue ana per- 
fection, which, without such helps, are never able to make 
their appearance. 

2 If my reader will give me leave to change the allusion so 
soon upon him, I shall make use of the same instance to il- 
lustrate the force of education, which Aristotle has brought 
to explain his doctrine of substantial forms, when he tells us, 
that a statue lies hid in a block of marble ; and that the art 
of the statuary only clears away the superfluous matter, and 
removes the rubbish. The figure is in ^th« stone, and the 
sculptor only finds it. 

Chap* S. Didactic Piece*. 47 

3 What sculpture is to a block of marble, education is to 
a human soul. The philo9opher, the saint, or tiie hero, the 
wise, the ^ooil, or tlie great man, very often lies hid and 
roncealed in a plebeian, which a proper education might 
have disinterred, and brought to light. I am therefore much 
di;ltghted with reading the accounts of savage nations ; and 
with contemplating those virtues which are wild*and uncul- 
tivated : to see courage exerting itself in fierceness, resolu- 
tion in obstinacy, wisdom in cunning, patience hi sullenneit 
and despair. 

•4 Men's passions operate variously, and appear in differ- 
ent kinds or actions, according as they are more or less recti- 
fied and swayed by reason. When one hears of negroee, 
who, upon the deatn of their masters, or upon changing their 
service, hang themselves upon the next tree, as it sometimes 
happens in our American plantations, who can forbear ad- 
romng their fidelity, though it expresses itself in so dreadful 
a manner ? *. 

5 What might not that savage greatness of soul, which ^' 
appears in these poor wretches on many occasions, be raised 
to, were it rightly cultivated ? And what colour of excuse 
can there be, for the contempt with which we treat this part 
of our species ; that we should not put them upon the com- 
mon footing of humanity ; that we should only set an insig- 
nificant fine upon the man who murders them : nay, thai 
we* should, as much as in us lies, cut them off from the 
prospects of hapmness in another world, as well as in this ; 
and deny them that which we look upon as the proper means 
for attaining it ? 

6 it is tlierefore an unspeakable blessing, to be bom In 
those parts of the world, where wisdom and knowledge 
flourisn ; though, it must be confessed, there are, even m 
these parts, several poor uninstructed persons who are but lit- 
tle above the inhabitants of those nations, of which I have 
been here speaking ; as those who have had the advantages 
of a more fiberal education, rise above one another by sever- 
al dilTn rent degrees of perfection. 

7 For, to return to our sta'tue in the block of marble, we 
see it sometimes only begun to be chipped, sometimes rough 
heWn, and but just sketched into a human figure ; some- 
times, we see tlie man appearing distinctiy in all his limbs 
and features ; sometimes, we find the figure wrought up to 
great elei^ancy ; but seldom meet with any to which the hand 
of a Phidias or a Praxiteles, could not give several nice 
touches and finishings. addisoii. 


4S The English Reader, Part 1 • 

On Grahiude, 

TH£R£ is not a more pleasing exercise of the mindy 
than gratitude. It is accompanied with so great in- 
ward satisfaction, that the duty is sufficiently rewarded by 
the perfomSance. It is not like the practice of many other 
virtues, difficult and painful, but attended with so much 
pleasure, that were there no positive command which en- 
joined itj nor any recompense laid up for it hereafter, a gen- 
erous mmd would indulge in it, for the natural gratiiicatioii 
wluch it affords. 

2 If gratitude is due from man to man, how much more 
from man to his Maker : The Supreme Being does not on- 
ly confer upon us those bounties which proceed more imme- 
diately from his own hand, but even those benefits which 
are conveyed to us by others. - Every blessing we enjoy^, by 
what means soever it may be conferred upon us. is the gift of 
Him who is the great Author of good, and tne Father of 
mercies. * 

5 If gratitude, when exerted towards one another, nat- 
urally produces a very pleasing sensation in the mind of a erate- 
(a\ man, it exalte the soul into rapture, when it is emmoyed 
on this great object of gratitude ; on this beneficent ^emg, 
who has given us every thing we already possess, and from 
whom we expect every thing we yet hope for* ADnisoif •, 


' On Fai^weness, 

THE most plain and natural sentiments of equi^, concur 
with divine authority, to enforce the duty or forgive- 
ness. Let Mm who has never, in his life, done wrong, be 
allowed tiie privilege of remaining inexorable. But let such 
as are conscious of frailties and crimes, consider forgiveness 
as a debt which they owe to others. Common failings, are 
the strongest lesson of mutual forbearance. Were tms vir- 
tue unknown among men, order and comfort, peace and 
repose, would be strangers tu human life. 

S Injuries retaliated according to the exorbitant measure 
which passion prescribes, would excite resentment in return. 
The injured person, would become the injurer j and thus 
wrongs, retaliations^ and fresh injuries, would circulate in 
endless succession, till the world was rendered afield of blood. 

3 Of all the passions which invade the human breast, re- 
venge is the most direful. When allowed to reign with full 
dominion, it is more than sufficient to poison the few pleas- 
uires ^hidi remain to man in his present stale. How much 

Chap. 3. DidacHc Pieu$. 49 

soever a person may suffer from injustice, he Is ahntjt id 
hazard of suffering moi-e from the prosecution of revenee. 
Tlu: violence of an enem]^', cannot inflict what is equal to uie 
torment he creates to mmself, by means of the fierce and 
desperate passions, which he allows to ra^ein his soul. 

4 Those evil spirits that inhabit the reeions of misery, are 
represented as delighting in revenge and cruelty. But al 
that is great and good in the universe, is on the side of clem 
ency and mercy. The almighty Ruler of the world, thoui^ 
for ages offended by the unrighteousness, and insulted by the 
impiety of men, is ^ long-sufferins and slow to anger.*' 

5 His Son, when he appearca in our nature, exhibited, 
both in his life and his deaths the most illustrious example 
of forgiveness, which the world ever behekl. If we look 
into the history of mankind, we shall find tliat, in every age, 
they who have been respected as worthy, or admired as 
great, have been distinguished for this virtue. 

6 Revenge dwells in little minds. A noble and magnan- 
imous spirit, is always superior to it. It suffers not, from the 
injuries of men, those severe shocks which others feel. Col- 
lected within itself, it stands utimuvi*d by their impotent as- 
saults; and with generous pity, rather than with anger, 
looks down on their unworthy conduct. It has been truiy 
said, that the greatest man on earth can no sooner commit an 
injury, than a good man can make himself greater, by for- 
giving it. BLAIR. 


Motives to the pracHct ofgenUeness, 

TO promote tlie virtue of gentleness, we ought to tow 
our character with an impartial eye ; and to learn, from 
our own failings, to give that indulgence which in our turn 
ire claim. It is pride which fills the world with so much 
harshness and severity. In the fulness of self-estimation, 
we forget what we are. We claim attentions to which we 
a«*e not entitled. We are rigorous to offences, as if we had 
never offended ; unfeeling to distress, ^s if we knew not what 
it was to suffer. From those aiir regions of pride and folly, 
let us descend to our proper level. 

2 Let us survey the natural equality on which Providence 
has placed man with man, and reflect on the infirmities com- 
mon to all. If the reflection on natural equality and mutu- 
1 1 offences, be insufficient to prompt humanity, let us at least 
emember what we are in the sight of our Creator, Have we 
one of that forbeafanoe to give one another, whifii we ail so 
>ainie6tiy entreat from heaved? Can we look for clemency 

50 T%e English Reader. Pari U 

or f^tleneas from our Judge, when we are lo backward to 
show it to our own brethren ? 

d Let us also accustom ourselves to reflect on the small mo- 
ment of those thin^ which are the usual incentives to vio- 
lence and contention. In the ruffled and angry hour, we 
view every appearance through a false medium. The most 
inconsiderable point of interest, or honour, swells into a mo- 
mentous object ; and the slightest attack, seems to threaten 
immediate ruin. 

4 But after passion or pride, has subsided, we look around 
in vain for the mightjr mischie& we dreaded. The fabric, 
which our disturbed imagination had reared, totally disap- 
pears. But though the cause of contention has dwindled 
away, its consequences remain. We have alienated a friend ; 
we nave imbittered an enemy, we have sown the s^is of 
future suspicion, malevolence, or disgust. 

5 Let us suspend our violence for a moment, when causes 
of ^scord occur. Let us anticipate that period of coolness, 
which, of itself, will soon arrive. Let us reflect how littie 
we have any prospect of gaining by fierce contention ; but 
h9W much of the true happiness of life, we are certain of throw- 
ing away. Easily, ana from the smallest chink, the bitter 
waters of strife are let forth ; but their course cannot be fore- 
seen ; and he seldom fails of suffering most from their poi- 
sonous effect, who first allows them to flow. blaik* 


A suspicious temper the source of misery ib Us possessor, 

A S a suspicious spirit, is the source of many crimes and 
jljL calamities in the world, so it is the spring of certain misery 
to me person who indulges it His friends will be few ; and 
small will be his comfort in those whom he possesses. Be- 
lieving others to be his enemies, he will of course make them 
such. Let his caution be ever so ^eat, the asperity of his 
thoughts will often break out in his behaviour ; and in re- 
turn for suspecting and hating, he will incur suspicion and 

2 Besddes the cnctemal evils which he draws upon himself 
arising from alienated friendships broken conndence, and 
open enmity, the suspicious temper itself is one of the worst 
evils which an^r man can suffer. If ^' in all fear, there is tor- 
ment," how miserable must be his state, who, by living in 
perpetual jealousy, lives in perpetual dread ! 

S Looking upon himselfto be surrounded with spies, ei|o- 
mies, an<Jfdengning men, he js a stranger to reliance and 
trust fie kaows not to wbonl to open himself He dresses 

Cjfop. 9. Didactic Aaeet. 91 

hb oountonanee m forced nnileB, whiln his heart throb* 
within from apprehensions of secret treachery. Hence fret- 
fubiess, and ul-humotir, disgust at the world, and all the 
painful sensations ofian irritated and imlHttered mind. 

4 So numerous and great are the evils arism^ from a sus- 
picious dispodtion, that, of the two extremes, it is more eli- 
rable to expose oursehres to occasional disaaTantage from 
uiinking too well of others, than to suffer contintuJ miserjr by 
thinldne always ill of them. It is better to be sometimes 
imposed upon, than never to trust Safety is purchasea at 
too dear a rate, when, in order to secure it, we are oblieed 
to be always clad in armour, and to live in perpetual hostiuty 
with our fellows. 

5 This is, for the sake of living, to deprive ourselves of the 
comfort of life. The man of candour, enjoys his situation, 
whatever it is, with cheerfuhiess and peace^ Prudence di- 
iHicts his intercourse with the worid ; but no Mack suspicions 
hatttit his hours of rest. Accustomed to view the charactem 
of his neiriiboun in the most favourable light, he is like one 
who dwefis amidst those beautiful seenes of nature, on which 
the ere rests with pleasure. 

6 Whei^as the suspicious man, having his imagination fill- 
ed vrith all the shockmg forms of human falsehood, deceit, 
and treachery, resembl^ the traveller in tiie wilderness, who 
diaeems no objects around him but such as are either dreary 
or tembic , ea/ems that yawn, seipents tiiat hu», ana oeasis 
of prey that howl blaik. 


Comforts o/Bdigion, 

THERE are many who have passed the age of youth and 
beauty ; who have resigned the pleasures of that smi- 
liiu; saason ; who begin to decline into the vale of years, im- 
paled in their healm, depressed in their foiltunes, stript of 
their friends, their childreny^aiid perhaps still more tender 
connexions. What resource can this world afford them ? It 
presents a dark and dreary waste, through which there does 
not issue a single ray of comfort. ^ v 

£ Every delusive prospect of ambition is now at an end ; 
long experience of mankind, an expenence very differ^t 
from what the open and generous soul of youth had fondly 
<lreamt o^ has rendei'ed the heart almost inaccessible to new 
friendships. The prindfMd sources of activity, are taken 
away, when those ior whom we labour, are cut off from us ; 
those who animated, and who sweetened, all the toils of life. 

9 Wheira thencan the toid find refus^e, but in the bosom 

M The English Reaaer. Part U 

of Reli^on ? There she is admitted to those prospects of 
Providence and futurity, which alone can warm and fill the 
heart I speak here of such as retain the feelings of hu- 
manity ; whom nusfortunes have softened, and pernaps ren- 
dered more delicately sensible': not of such as possess that 
stupid insensibility, which some are pleased to dignify ^th 
the name of Philosophy. 

4 It might therefore be expected, that those philosophere, 
who think they stand in no need themselves of the asisistance 
of jeligion to support their virtue, and who never feel the 
want of its consolations, would yet have the humanity to 
consider the very different situation of the rest of mankind ; 
and not endeavour to deprive them of what habit, at least, if 
they will not allow it to be nature, has made necessary to 
tlieir morals, and to their happiness. 

5 It might be expected, that humanity would prevent 
them from breaking into the last retreat of the imfortunate, 
who can no longer be objects of their envy or rescritment ; 
and tearing from them their only remaining comfort. The 
attempt to ridicule religion may be agreeable to some, by 
relieving them from restraint upon their pleasures ; and may 
render others very miserable, by making them doubt those 
truths, in which they were most deeply interested ; but it can 
convey real good and happiness to no one individual. 



Diffidence of our cMUies^ a mark ofwiadom. 

r]* is a sure indication of good sense, to be diffident of it. 
We then, and not till then, are growing wise, when we 
begin to discern how weak and unwise we are. An absolute 
penection of understanding, is impossible : he makes (he 
nearest approaches to it, who has tne sense to discern, and 
the faumiuty to acknowledge, its imperfections. 

S, ModestT always sits eraioefully upon youtii ; it covers a 
multitude of faults, and aoubl6s the lustre of every virtue 
which it seems to hide : the perfections of men being like 
those flowers which appear more beautiful, when their leaves 
are a little contracted and folded up, than when they are full 
blown, and display themselves, without any reserve, to the 

3 We are some of us very fond of knowledge, and apt to 
value ourselves upon any proficiency in the sciences : one sci- 
ence, however, there is, worth more than all the rest ; and 
that is, the science of livine well ; This shall remain, when 
'^ tongues shall cease," and ^knowledge shall vanish away." 

tHhap. S. . DidacHc PieceB. H 

4 As to new notions, and new doctrinesi of wbkh tbisa^ 
is very fruitful, the time wi]] come, when we shall ha^ e no 
ploasure in them : nay. the time shall come, when they shall 
tie exploded, and would hare been forgotten, if they hiad not 
been preserved in those exceUent books, which contain a con- 
futation of them; like insects preserved for ages in amber, 
which otherwise would soon have returned to the conunon 
mass of things. 

5 But a mn belief of Christianity, and a practice suitable 
to it, will support and invigorate the mind to the kist ; and 
most of all, at last, at that important hour, which must de^'.ide ^ 
oar hopes and apprehensions : and the wisdom, which, 
like our Saviour, cometh from above, will, through his 
merits, bring us thither. All our other studies and pursuits, 
however different, ought to be subservient to^ and centre in, 
this ffrand point, the pursuit of eternal happiness, by being 
gooa in owrselv^ ana useful to the wcnrld. sxxn 


On ike importance of order in the disirxbvium of our time. 

TIME, we ou^ht to consider as a siicrud trust, committed 
to us by God, of which we ire now the depositiirles, and 
are to rende)r an account at the last 'i liat portion of it which 
he has allotted to us, is intended partly lor tlie concerns of 
tlus world, partly for those of the next. Let each of these 
occupy, in the distribution of our time, that space which 
properly belongs to it. 

£ Let not the hours of hospitality and pleasure, interfere 
with tne discharge of our necessary affairs ; and let not what 
we call necessary affairs, encroach upon the time which is due 
to devotion. To every thing there is a season, and a time 
for every purpose under the heaven. If we delay till to- 
morrow what ought to be done to-day, we overcharge the 
morrow with a burden which belongs not to it. We load the 
wheels of time, and prevent them from carryuig us along 

S He who every morning plans the transactions of the day, 
and follows out that plan, carries on a thread which wOl guide 
hun through the lahvrinth of the most busy life. The or- 
derly arranzement of his time, is like a ray of light, which 
darts itself through all his affairs. But, wnere no plan is laid, 
where the disposal of time is surrendered merely to the chance 
of incidents, all things lie huddled togeUier in one chaos, 
which admits neitiier ofdistribution nor review. 

4 The first requisite for introducing order into tiie mana^ 
meat of time, is, to be impr o ssd with a iiMt sense o# its 


M 'ne EngKth Reader, Part 1 

Talue. Let us consider well how much depends' upon it, aod 
how fast it flies away. The bulk of meti are irt notning more 
capricious and inconsistent, than in their appreciation of tixne. 
"WDen they think of it, as the measure of their continuance 
on earth, tnev highly prize it, and with the greatest anidety 
■eek to lenstnen it out. 

5 But wnen they view it in separate parcels, they appear 
to hold it in contempt, and squander it with inconsiaerate 
profusion. While they complain that life is short, they are 
often wishing its different periods at an end. Covetous of 
every o&er possession, of time only they are prodigal. They 
allow every idle man to be master of this property, and make 
every frivolous occupation welcome that can help them to 
consume it 

6 Among those who are so careless of time, it is not to be 
expected that order should be observed in ite distribution. 
Bu^ by tlus fatal neelect, how many materials of Severe and 
lastuag regret, are tney laying up m store for themselves ! 
The time which they suflfer to pass away in the midst of con- 
fusion, bitter repentance seeks afterwards in vain to recall. 
What was omitted to be done at its proper moment, arises to 
be the torment of some future season. , 

7 Manhood is disgraced by the consequences of neglected 
youth. Old age, oppressed by cares that belonged to a for- 
mer period, labours under a burden not its own. At tiie 
dose of life, the dying man beholds with anguish that his 

^ days are finishing, when his preparation for eternity is hardly 
commenced. Such are the effects of a disorderly waste of 
time, through not attending to its yalue. Every tninein the 
Hfe of such persons, is misplaced. Nothing is performed 
aright, from not being performed in due season. 

8 But he who is orderly in the distribution of his time, 
takes the proper niethod of escaping those manifold evils. 
He is justly said to redeexn the time. By proper manage- 
ment, he prolongs it He lives much in little space ; more 
in a few years, tnan others do in many. He can live to God 
and his own soul, and, at the same time, attend to all the 
the lawful interests of the present world. He looks back on 
file past, and provides for the future. 

9 He catches and arrests the hours as they fly. They 
are marked down for useful purposes, and tlieir memory re- 
mains. Whereas those hours fleet by the man of confusion, 
like a shadow. His days and years are either blanks, of 
^iiich he has no remembrance, or they are fllled up with so 
eon&sed and irregular a succession of unfinished traniSactions, 
tbat thouf^ he remembem he has been busy, yet he can 

Chap.S. . Didactic PieceM. 55 

l^e no aooouDt of the business which has employed htm. 



J%t dignity ofvirlut amidst eorrupt examples. 

THE most excellent and honourable ohtracter which can 
adorn a man and a Christian, {Required by resisting tlie 
torrent of vice, and adh^ng to tHe cause of God and Yir^ 
tue against a corrupted multitude. It will be found to hold in 

general, that they, who, in any of the great lines of life. 
ave distinguishea themselves for thinking profoundly, ana 
acting nobly, have den)ised popular prejudices, and Depart- 
ed, in several things, from the conmion ways of the world. 
k On no occasion is this more requisite for true honour, 
than where religion and morality are concerned. In times 
of prevaSiBg licentiousness, to maintain unblemished virtue, 
ana uncomlpted integrity ; in a public or a nrivater ciiuse, to 
stand firm by what is fair and just, amidst aiscouragements 
and opposition ; desnising groundless censure and reproach ; 
' disdaining all compliance with public manners, when they 
are vicious and unlawful; and never ashamed of the .punc- 
tual discharge of every duty towards God and man ; — this is 
what shows true greatness of spirit, and will force approba- 
tion eveii from the di*generate multitude themselves. 

8 " This is the man," (their conscience will oblige them to 
acknowledge,) ** whom we are unable to bend to mean 'con- 
descensions. We see it in vain cither to flcatter or to threat- 
en him; he rests on a principle within, which we can- 
not shake. To this man, we may, on iny occasion, safely 
commit our cause. He is incapable of betraying his trust, 
''or deser^ng his friend, or denjing his faith." 

4 It is, accordingly, this steady indexible virtue, this re- 
gard to principle, superior to all custom and opinion, which 
EecuKarly marked the characters of those in any age, who 
ave shone with distinguished lustre; and has consecrated 
their memory to all posterity. It was tius that obtsMned to 
ancient Enocn, the most singular testimony of honour from 

& He continued to "walk with God," when the world 
apostatized from him. He pleased God, and was beloved 
Qi him ; so that living among sinners, he was translated to 
heaven without seeing death : *< Yea, speedily wiis he taken 
away, lest wickedness should have altered His understand- 
ing, or deceit beguiled his souL" 

6 When Sodom could not funush ten righteous men to 
' i^ve it, Lot ramauMd unqwtted amidst the contagion. He 

36 I%e EngUih Reader. Parti. 

Bred Jika an an^l among spirits of darkness; and the de- 
stroying flame was not permitted to go forth, till the good 
man was called away, oy a hearenly messenger, from his 
devoted city. 

7 When <*aD flesh had corrupted their way upon the 
ear^" then lived Noah, a riehteous man, and a preacher 
of rwiiteousness. He stood alone, and was scoffed by the 
profaoe crew. But they by the deluge were swept away 
whjle on him. Providence conferred the immortal honour 
of being the restorer of a better race, and the father of a new 
world. Such examples as these, and such honours confer- 
red br God on them who withstood the multitude of evil do- 
ers, snould often be present to our minds. 

8 Let us oppose tnem to the numbers of low and corrupt 
eiamples, which we behold around us ; and when we are m 
haxard of being swayed by such, let us fortify our virtue, by 
thinkine of those, who, m former times, shone like stars in 
the midst of sarrounding darkness, and are now shining in. 
the kingdom of heaven, as the brightness of the firmament 
for ever and ever. blaik. 


The mortifieaHons of vice greater than fhoet ofimiue. 

THOUGH no condition of human life, is free from unea- 
siness, yet it must be allowed, that the uneasiness be- 
longing to a sinful course, is far greater than what attends 
a course of well-doing. If we are weanr of the labours of 
virtue, we may be assured, that the world, whenever we try 
the exchange, will lay upon us a much heavier load. 

S It is the outside only, 6€ a licentious life, which is gay 
and smiling. Within, it conceals toil, and trouble, ana 
deadly sorrow. For vice poisons human happiness in the 
spring, by introducing disorder into the heart Those pas- 
. aions which it seems to indulge, it only feeds with impenect 
gratifications ; and thereby strengthens them for preying, in 
ue end, on their unhappy victims. 

S It is a great mistsike to imagine, that the pun of self- 
denial, is confined to virtue. He who follows the world, as 
much as he who follows Christ, must ^ take up his cross," 
and to lum, assuredly, it will prove a more oppressive burden. 
Vice allows all our passions to range uncontroUed; and 
where each claims to be superior, it is impossible to gratify 
alU The predominant desire, can only be indulged at the 
expense or its rival. 

4 No mortifications which virtue exacts, are more severe 
than thoiei which ambition imposes upon the love ef easi^ 

». S, Didactic Pieee$- 57 

pride upon interest, and covetousneis upon Tanity. S<^lf 
denial, tlierefore, belongs, in common, to vice and virtue ; 
l>ut with this remarkable oifierence, that the passions which 
-virtue requires us to mortify, it tends to weaken ; whereas, 
those which vice obliges us to denVy it, at the same time, 
strengthens. The one diminishes me pain of self-denial, by 
moderating the demand of passion ; the other increases it, by 
rendering those demands imperious and violent. 

5 What distresses that occur in the calm life of virtue, oan 
be compared to those tortures, which remorse of conscience 
inflicts on the wicked ; to those severe humiliations, arising 
from guilt, combined with misfortunes, which sink them to 
the dust ; to those violent agitations of shame and disap- 
pointQient, which sometimes drwe them to the most fatal 
extremities, and make them abhor their existence! How 
often, in the midst of those disastrous situations, into which 
their crimes have brought them, have they execrated the se- 
ductions of vice ; and, with bitter regret, looked back to the 
day on which they first forsook the path of innocence ! 


On ContentmeTU, 

CONTENTMENT produces, in some measure, all tiiosa 
effects which the alchymist usually ascribes to what he 
calls the philosopher's stone ; and if it does not bring riches, it' 
does the same thing, by banishing the desire of them. If it 
cannot remove the disquietudes arising from a man's mind, 
body, or fortune, it makes him easy under them. It has in- 
deed a kindly influence on the soul of man, in respect of 
every bein^ to whom he stands related* 

2 It extinguishes all murmur, repining, and ingratitude, 
towards that Being who has aUottea him his part to act in 
this world. It destroys all inordinate ambition, and every ' 
tendency to corruption, with regard to the community where- 
&i he is placed. It gives sweetness to his conversation, and 

a perpetual serenity to all his tiiou^hts. 

3 Among the many methods which might be made use of 
for acouiring this virtue, I shall mention only the two follow- 
ing. Fii*st of all, a man should always consider how much 
he has more than he wants ; and secondly, how much more 
unhappy he might be, than he really is. 

4 First, a man should always consider how much he has 
more^than he wants. I am wonderfully pleased with the re- 
ply which Aristippus made to one, who condoled with him 
upon the loss of a (arm: ''Why," said he ^l have three 

98 J%e EngKsk Reader. Part 1 . 

(armt ftilL and you have but one ; so that I ought rather to 
be aMctea for you, than yoU for me. " 

5 On the contrary, foolish men are more apt to consider 
what they have lost, than wliat they possess ; and to fix their 
eyes upon those who are richer than themselves, rath«r than 
on those who are under greater difficulties. All the real jAeas- 
Ares and conveniences of life, lie in a narrow compass ; but 
it is the humour of mankind to be always looking forward ; 
and straining after one who has Kot the start of them in wcsalth 
and honour. 

6 For this reason, as none can be properly called rich, who 
llave not more than they want, there are few rich men in any 
of the politer nations, but among the middle sort of people, 
who keep their wishes within their fortunes, and have nior« 
wealth than they know how to enjoy. 

7 Persons of a higher rank, live in a Idnd of splendid pov- 
er^f ; and are peipetuaUy wanting, because, instead of ae* 
quiescing in the sohd pleasures of life, they endeavoiur to out- 
vie one another in shadows and appearances. Men of sense 
have at all times beheld, with a ereat deal of nurth, this s31y 
eame tiiat is pla3ring over their neads ; and, by contracting 
uieir desires, they enjoy all that secret satis&ction which oth 
ers are always in quest oL 

8 The truth is, this ridiculous chase after imaginary pleas- 
ures, cannot be sufficiently exposed, as it is the great source 
of those evils which generally undo a nation. Let a man's 
estate be what it may, he is a poor man, if he does not live 
within it: and naturally sets himself on sale to any one that 
ean dve nim his price. 

8 When Pittacus, after the death of his brother, who had 
left him a good estate, was offered a great sum of money by 
the king of Lydia, he thanked him for his kindness ; but 
told him, he haa already more by half than he knew what to 
do with. In short, content is equivalent to wealth, and luxu- 
ry to poverty ; or, to give the thought a moap agreeable turn. 
^Content b natural wealth, " says Socrates ; to which I • 
Jhall add. Luxury is artificial poverty. 

10 I shall therefore reconmiend to the consideVation of 
ihose, who are always aiming at supernuous and imaginary 
enjoyments, and who will not be at tne trouble of contracting 
their desires, an excellent saying of Bion the philosopher, 
namely, ^ That no man has so much care, as he who enaeav- 
ours after the most happiness." 

11 In the second piace^ every one ought to reiiept how 
much more unhappy be nught be, than he really is.— llie for- 
mer consideration took in all those, who are sufficiently pro- 

Chap. S ^ Didaede Pieces. 59 

iidedwitlitlieiiiMMtoxnakettwinselTMMSj; tfais regards 
such as actually lie under some pressure or misfortime. 
These may receive great aneviation. froin such a comparisoa 
as the unhappy person may make between himself and oth 
ers ; or between the misfortune which he suffers, and greatei 
midfortunes which might have befallen him. 

IS. I like the story of the honest Dutchman, who, upon 
breakinij bis Ic^ by a fall from the main-mast, told the stand- 
ers by, it was a great mercy that it was not his neck. To 
whica, nnoe I am got into quotations, give me leave to add the 
saying of ain old pniiosopher^ who, after having invited some 
ofnis friends to dine with him, was ruffled by a person that 
came into the room in a passion, and threw down the table 
that stood before them : " Every one," says he, " has his ca- 
lamity ; and he is a happy man that has no greater tiiaii thi*.'* 

13 We find an instance to the same purpose, in the life of 
doctor Hammond, written by bishop FeU. As this good man 
was troubled with a complication ot distempers, when he had 
the gout upon him, he used to thank God that it was not the 
stone ; and v^hen he had the stone, that he had not both these 
distenopers on him at the same time. 

14 r cannot conclude this essay without observing, thai 
there never was anv system besides that of Christianity^ 
which could effectually produce in the mind of man, die vir- 
tue I have been hitherto speaking of. In order to make im 
contented with our condition, many of the present philoso- 
phers tell us, that our discontent only hurts ourselves, with- 
out being able to make any alteration in our circumstances : 
others, uat whatever evil befalls us is derived to us by a fatal 
necessity, to which superior beings themselves are subject ; 
whil^ others, very cravely, teD the man who is miserable, 
that it is necessary he should be so, to keeo up the harmony 
of the universe ; and that the scheme of rrovidence would 
be troubled and perverted^ were he otherwise. 

1 5 These andtne like considerations, rather silence than sat- 
isfy a mas. They may show him that his discontent is unrea* 
sonable, but they are by no means sufficient to relieve it. — 
They rather give despair than consolation. In a word, a 
man mi^ht reply to one of these comforters, as Augustus (&t 
to his fnend, who advised him not to grieve for the death of. 
a person whom he loved, because his grief could not fetch 
him again : ** It is for that very reason,^ said the emperor, 
"that 1 grieve." 

IS On the contrary, reli^on bears a more tender regard 

. to human nature. It prescribes to every miserable man the 

meana of bettering his condition : nat, it ibomi hiiii« that 

60 The English Reader. Part 1 . 

Iiearing his afflictions as he ought to do, will naturally end in 
the removal of them. It makes him easy here, because it 
can make him liappy hereafter.- addisoh. 


Bmk and riches afford no ground for envy. 

OF all the grounds of envy among men, superiority in 
rank and fortune, is the most general, llence, the 
malig[nity which the poor commonly bear to the rich, as en- 
l^ossmg to themselves all the comforts of life. Hence, the 
enl eye with which persons of inferior station, scrutinizet hose 
who are above them in rank; and if they approach to that 
rank, their envy is generally strongest against such as are 
just one step higher than themselves. 

€ Alas ! my friends, all this envious disquietude, which 
agitates the world, arisen from a deceitful £gure which im- 
poses on the public view. False colours are nung out : the 
real state of men, is not what it seems to be. The order of 
society, requires a distinction of ranks to take place : but in 
point of happiness, all men come much nearer to equality, 
than is commonly imagined ; and the circumstances, which 
form any material difference of happiness among them, are 
not of that nature which renders them grounds of envv. 

3 The poor man possesses n6t, it is true, some of tne con- 
veniences and pleasures of the rich ; but, in return, he is free 
from many emoarrassments to wliich they are subject. By 
the simplicity and uniformity of his life, he is "delivered from 
that variety of cares, which perplex those who have great 
affairs to manage* intricate plans to pursue, many enemies, 
perhaps, to encounter in the pursuit. 

4 In the tranquillity of his small habitation, and private 
family, he enjoys a peace which is often unknown at courts. 
The gratifications or nature, which are always the most satis- 
factory, are possessed by hiim to their full extent ; and if he 
be a stranger to the refined pleasures of the wealthy, he is 
unacquainted also with the desire of them, and, by conse- 
quence, feels no want. 

5 His plain meal satisfies his appetite, with a relish proba- 
bly higher than that of the rich man, who sits down to his 
luxurious banquet His sleep is more sound; his health 
more firm ; he knows not what spleen, languor, and listless- 
ncss are. His accustomed employments or labours, are not 
more oppressive to' him, than the labour of attendance on 
courts and the great, the labours of dress, the fatigue of 
amusemduts, the very wdgbt of idlene^ frequently are to 
the rich. 

Gktip. 9. Didactic Pieces. 6l 

• In the mean time, all the beauty of the ftice of nature, all 
the enjoyments of domestic society, all the gaiety and cheer- 
fulness of an easy mind, are as open to him as to those of the 
highest rank. The sulendour oi retinue, the sound of titles, 
the appearauces of nigh respect, are indeed soothing, for 
a short time, to the^reat ; but, become familiar, thev are 
soon forgotten. — Custom eAace^ their impre^ion. They 
sink into the rank of tliose ordinary things, which daily reciv 
without raising aoy sensation of joy. 

7 Let us cease, therefore, from looking up with discon- 
tent and envy to those, whom birth or fortune has placed 
above us. IJet us adjust the balance of happiness fairly.—- 
When we think of the enjoyments we want, we should tnink 
ako of the troubles frpm which we are free. If we allow 
their just Talue to tM comforts we possess, we shall find 
reason to rest satisfied, with a very moderate, though not an 
opulent ahd splendid condition of fortune. Often, did we 
know the whole, we should be inclined to pity the state of 
those whom we now envy. \ blair* 


Patience under provocatimu our intertH as well a$ duJtg, 

THE wide circle of human sodety. is diversified by an 
endless variety of characters, dispositions, and pas- 
sions. Uniformity IS, in no respect, thej^enius of the world. 
Every man is marked by some pecuharity, which distin- 
guishes him from another : and no where can two individu- 
als be found, who are exactly, and in all respects, alike. 
Where so much diversity obtams, it cannot but happen, that 
in the intercourse which men are obliged to maintain, their 
tempers will often be ill adjusted to tiiat intercourse ; wAl 
jar and interfere with each other. 

£ Hence, in every station, the highest as well as the 
lowest, and in every condition of life, public, private, and 
domestic, occasions of irritation frequently arise. We are 
provoked, sometimes, by the folly and levity of those with 
whom we are connectea ; sometimes, by their indiffereiico 
or ne^cct : by the incivility .of a friend, tne haughtiness of a 
superior, or tne msolent behaviour of one in lower station. 
5 Hardly a day passes, without somewhator other occurring, 
which serves to ruffle the man of impatientspirit Of course 
such a man lives in a continual storm. He knows not what 
it is to enjoy a train of good humour. Servants, neighbours 
friends, spouse, and children, all, through the unrestrained 
violence of his temper, become sources of disturbance and 
vexatioB to him. In vain is affluence: in vain are health an^ 


03' The EnglUh Reader Part 1. 

promerity. The least trifle is suffident to discompose Im 
mma, and poison his pleasures. His very amusements are 
mixed with turbulence and passion. 

4 I would beseech this man to consider, of what small 
moment the provocations which he receives, or at least 
imagines himself to receive, are really in themselves ; but of 
whaS great moment he makes them, by suffering them to 
deprive hjm of the possession of himself. I woaM beseech 
him to consider, how many hours of happiness he throws^ 
away, which a little more pati.ence would allow him to enjoy :' 
and now much he put^ it in the power of the most insignifi- 
cant persons to render hiin miserable. 

5 *^ But who can expect," we hear him exdajm, '* that he 
is to possess the insensibility of a stone? How is it possible 
for human nature to endure so many repeated provocations ? 
or to bear calmly with so unreasonable behaviour ?" — ^My 
brother ! if thou canst bear with no instances of unreasonable 
behaviour, withdraw thyself from the world. Thou art no 
longer fit to live in it. Leav^ the intercourse of men. Re- 
treat to the mountain, and the desert ; or shut thyself up in 
a celL For here, in the midst of society, offences mtigt come* 

6 We might as well expect, when we behold a calm atmos- 
phere, and a clear sky, tnat no clouds were ever to rise, and 
no winds to blow, as that our life were long to proceed, wi^- 
out receiving provocations from human frailty. The careless 
and the imprudent the giddy and the fickle, the ungrateful 
and the interested, every where meet us. They are the 
briers and thorns, with which tiie paths of human life are 
beset He only, who can hold his course among them with 
patience and equanimity, he who is prepared to bear what 
ne must expect to happen, is worthy of tne name of a man. 

7 If we preserved ourselves composed but for a moment* 
we should perceive the insigrmtancy of most of those provo- 
cations which we magnify so highly. When a few suns 
more have rolled over our heads, the storm will, of itself, 
have subsided ; the cause of our present impatience and dis- 
turbance will be utterly forgotten. Can we not, then, an- 
ticipate this hour of calmness to ourselves ; and begin to en- 
joy the peace which it will certainly bring ? 

8 If others have behaved improperly, let us leave them to 
their own folly, without becomfne the victim of Aeir ca- 
price, and punishing ourselves on tneir account — Patience, 
11^ this exercise of it, cannot be too much studied, by all who 
wish their life to flow in a smootii stream. It is the reason 
of a man, in opposition to the passion of a child. It is the 
enjoyment of peace, in omMMiliOn to uproar aad coafiision. 


<Skap. S. DidacHc F^ecet. 08 


Moderation in our tnthm recomniended* 

THE active mind of man, seldom or never rests satisfied 
with its oresent condition, how prosperouB soever. Origi* 
naOy formea for a wider ranee of objects^ for a higher sphere 
of enjoyments, it finds itself, in every situation of fortune, 
straitened and confined. Sensible of defidency in its state, 
it IS ever sendine forth the fond desire, tiie aspiring wisn, 
alter something bieyond what is enjoyed at present. 

£ Hence, that restlessness which prevails so generally 
amon^ m.uikind. Hence, that disgust of pleasures which 
they have tried ; that passion for novelty ; that ambition ol 
rising to some degree of eminence or felicity, of which they 
have formed to theinselves an indistinct idea. AU which may 
be considered as indiaitions of a certain native, original great- 
ness in the human soul^ swelling beyond the limits of its i)res- 
ent condition ; and pomtine to the higher objects for wMcM 
It was made. Happy, if these latent remains of our prhni 
tive state, served to direct our wishes towards their propei 
destination, and to lead us into tiie path of true bliss. 

S But in this dark and bewildered state, the aspiring ten- 
dency of our nature unfortunately takes an opposite direc- 
tion, and feeds a very nusplaced ambition. Tne flattering 
appearances which here present tiiemselves to sense ; the dis- 
tinctions which fortune confers ; the advantages and pleiis- 
ures which we imagine the world to be capable of Iflistowing, 
fill up the ultimate wish of most men. These are the objects 
which engross tiieir solitary musings, and stimulate tli(;ir 
active labours ; which warm the breasts of the young, ani- 
mate the industry of the middle aged, and often keep alive 
the passions of the old, until the very close of life. 

4 Assuredly, there is nothing unlawful in our wishing to 
be freed from wbatevcr is disagreeable, and to obtain a ftiller' 
enjoyment of the comturts of life. But when tht*se wishes . 
are not tempered by reason, they are in danger of precipita- 
tin;^ us into much extravagance and folly. Desires and. 
wishfcs, are the fii*st springs of action. When tiiey become 
exorbitant, the whole character is likely to be tainted. 

5 If we suffer our fancy to create to itself worlds of ideal 
happiness, we shall discompose the peace and order of our , 
minds, and £Ehn<!nt many hurtful fiassions. Here, then, let 
nind<Talio{i begin its reign : by bringing witlun reasonable 
bounds the wishes that we lorm. As soon as they become 
extravagant, let us dieck tb^m, by prooer reflec^tions on the 

64 I%e EnglUh Reader. Pari 1 

fallacious nature of those objects, which the world hangs out 
to allure detire. 

6 You have strayed, my friends, from the road which con- 
iucts to felicity ; you have dishonoured tiie native dignitjr of • 
your soulS) in allowing your wishes to terminate on nothing 
nigher than worldly ideas of gre»iaie8s or happiness. Your 
imagination roves in a land of shadows. Unreal forms de- 
ceive you. It is no more than a phantom, an illusion of hap- 
piness, which attracts your fond admiration ; nav, an illu- 
sion ^( haooiness, which often conceals much real misery. 

7 Do you .magine that all are happy, who have attained to 
those summits of distinction, towards which your wishes as- 
pire ? Alas ! how frequently has experience shown, that 
where roses were supposed to bloom, nothing but briers and 
thorns grew ! Reputation, beauty, riches, grandeur, nay, 
rgyalty itself, would, many a time, have been gladly ex- 
changed by the possessors, for that more ouiet and humble 
station, with which you are now dissalisiiea. 

d With all that is splendid and shining in the world, it is 
decreed that there should mix many deep shades of woe. 
On the elevated situations of fortune, the great calamities of 
life chiefly fall. There, the storm spends its violence, and 
there, the thunder breaks, while, sale and unhurt, the in- 
habitants of the vale remain below ; — ^Retreat, tlien^ from 
those vain and pernicious excursions of extravagant desire. 

9 Satisfy ^rourselves with what is rational and attainable. 
Train your minds to moderate views of human life, and hu- 
man happiness. Remember, and admire the wisdom of 
Amur's petition: " Remove far from me vanity and lies. — 
Give me neither poverty nor riches. Feed me vnth food 
convenient for me : lest I be full and deny thee ; and say 
who is the Lord ? or lest I be poor, ana steal ; and taki* 
the name of my God in vain." blaib 



Chnnisdmce andomnivresenee of the Deitt, the source of con- 

sotaiwn to good men, 

I WAS yesterday, about sun-set, walking in the open fields, 
till the night insensibly fell upon me. Fat first am used my- 
self with all the richness and .variety of colours, which"" ap- 
peared in the western parts of heaven. In proportion as they 
faded away and went out, several stars and planets appeared 
one after another, till the whole firmament was in a glow. 
2 The blueness of the ether was exceedingly heightened 
and enlivened^ by the season of the year, ana the rays of 
all thosa luminaries that passed through it The galaxy 

CAqp* 4> DUtacitc PUeet, p^ 

appealed In its moft beautiful white. To oompleU tb« nene, 
tne fun moon roae, at length, in that clouded migesty, whicfi 
Milton takes notice of; and opened to the eye a nevrpicture 
of nature, which was more finely shaded, and disposed 
among softer lights than that which the sun had before discoT- 
ered to me. 

S As I was surveying the moon walking in her brightneis, 
and taking her progress among the constellations, a tnouffht 
arose in me, wnicn I belieye verr often perplexes and cus- 
turbs men of serious and contemplative natures. David him* 
self fen into it in that reflection ; ** Wlien I consider the heav- 
ens, the work of thy fingers ; the moon and the stars which 
thou hast ordained ; what is man, that thou art mindful of him, 
and the son of man, that thou regardest him 1 ^ 

4 In the same manner, when Iconsidered that infinite host 
of stars, or, to speak more philosophically, of suns, which 
were then shining upon me ; with those innumerable sdts of 
l^anets or worlds, wnich were moving* round their respective 
suns ; when I still enlarged the idea, and supposed another 
heaven of suns and worlds, rising still above this which I dis- 
Govered ; and these still enlightened by a superior firmament 
of luminaries, which are planted at so great a distance, that 
they may appear to the inhabitants of the former, as the stars 
do to me : lo short, while I pursued this tliought I could 
not but reflect on that little insignificant figure which 1 myself 
bore amidst the inunensity of God's works. 

5 Were the sun, which enfiglitens this part of the creation, 
with all the host of planetary worlds that move about hun, 
utterly extinguished and annihiluted, they wuuld not be mis- 
sed, more than a grain of sand uuon tne sea-shore. The 
space they possess, is so exceedingly little in comparison of 
the whole, ft would scarcely make a blank in the creation. 
The chasm would be imperceptible to an eye that could take 
in the whole compass of nature, and paSs from one end of 
the creation to the other ; as it is ))u^it)le thtu'c may be such 
a sense in ourselves heri^after, or in creatures which are at 
present more exalted than ourselves. By tlie help of glass- 
es, we see many stare, which we do not discover with our 
naked eyes ; ana the finer our telescopes are, the greater stiU 
are our discoveries. 

6 Hujgenius Carries ttiU. IhoHght so far, that he does not 
think it impossilile there maybe stars, whose light has not yet 
travelled avym to us, since their first creation. There is 
no question that the universe has certain bounds set to it; 
but when we consider that it is the work of Infinite PowerJ 
ttomptftd by Infinite Goodness, with an infinite space to 


M TU'EngKih Readers Part 1 . 

txert itself in, how can our imagination set any bounds to h? 

7 To return, ther'^fore, to niy fii;^t thought^! could not but 
look upon myself with secret norror, as a being tliat was not 
worth, the smallest regard of one, who had so great a work 
under his care and superintendency. I M'as afraid of being 
overlooked amidst the immensity of nature ; and lost among 
that infinite variety of creatures, i^hich, in all probabilityi 
swarm through all these immeasurable regions of matter. 

8 In order to recover myself from this mortifying thought, 
I considered that it took its rise from those narrow con<!ep' 
tions, which we are apt to entertain of the Divine Nature. 
We ourselves cannot attend to msinj different objects at the 
same time. If we are carefti) to inspect some thin^. we 
must of course neglect others. This imperfection which we 
observe in ourselves, is an imperfectioa tnat cleaves, in some 
degree, to creatures of tii* highest capacities, as they are 
creatures, that is, beings ol finite and limited natures. 

9 The presence of every created being, is confined to a cer- 
tain measure of space ; and, consequenuy, his observation is 
stinted to a certain number of objects. The sphere in which 
we move, and act, and understand, is of a wider circumfer- 
ence to one creature, than another, according as we rise one 
above another in the scale of existence. But the widest of 
these our spheres, has its circumference. 

10 When, therefore, we reflect on the Divine Nature, we 
are ao used and accustomed to this imperfection in ourselves, 
tliat we cannot forbear, in some measure, ascribing it to him, 
in whom there is no shadow of imperfection. Our reason, 
indeed, assures us, that his attributes are infinite ; but the 
poorness of our conceptions is such, that it cannot forbear 
setting bounds to every thing it contemplates, till our reason 
comes again to our succour, and throws down all those little 
prejudices, which rise in us unawares, and are natural to the. 
mind of man. 

11 We shall therefore utterly extinguish tlus melancholy 
thought, of our being overlooked by our Maker, in the multi- 
plici§r of his works, and the infinity of tliose objects among 
which he seems to be incessantly employed, if we consider, 
in the first place, that he is omnipresent ; ana, in the second, 
that he is omniscient 

12 If we consider him in lis omnipresence, his being 
passes throu^, actuates, and supports, the whole frame of 
nature. His creation, in every part of it, is full of him. 
There Is nothing he nta made, which is either so distant, so 
little, or so inconsiderable^ that he does not essentially reside 
in it Bk sufaftance is within the subfitanceof every being, 

Ckap^ 4* jtrgnmeneatwe Piecet. Of 

'Whether material or immaterial, and at intimatuly |)rf«cnl 
to it, as that being is to itself. 

IS It would be an imperfection in him, were he abia to 
move wit of one place into anotlier ; or to Hithdmw liimself 
finora any thing he has created, or from any part of thiit siKice 
ivhich he diffused and spread abroad to inHnity. In short, 
to speak of him in the language of the old piiilosophers, lie is 
a Being whose centre is every where, ana his circumference 
no where. 

14 In the second place, he is omniscient as well as omni 
present. His omniscience, indeed, nccessjirily and natural 
fy flows from his omnipresence. He cannot but Ih> con 
waotis of every motion tliat irises in the whole material world, 
which he thus essentially pervades ; and of every tbouglit 
that is stirring in the intellectual world, to every part ol 
'which he b thus intimately united. 

15 Were tiie soul separated from the body, and should it 
^th one glance of thought start beyond die liounds of tlie 
creation ; should it for millions of years, continue its pni- 
gress through infinite space, with the sAme activity, it would 
still find its^f within the embrace of its Creator, and encom- 
passed by the uxunensitj of the Godhead. 

16 In this consideration of the Alniightv's omnipiesence 
and onmiscience, every uncomfortable tnuught vanisht^. 
He cannot but regard every thing that has being, especially 
such of his creatures who fear they are not regarded tiy him. 
He is privy to all their thoughts, and to that anxiety oi heart 
in pardcu&f, which is apt to trouble them on tliis occasion 
for, as it is impossible he should overlook any of his crea- 
tures, so we may be confident thmt he n^ards with an rye ol 
mercy, those who endeavour to recommend themselves to his 
notice ; and in unfeigned humility of heart, think themselves 
unworthy that he should be miiNiful of them. aduisom. 




Happinen itfowndjtd in reditvde ofwndud, 

ALL men pursue good, and would be happy, if they 
knew how: not happy for minutes, and miserable for 
hours; but happy, if possible, through every part of their 
eiustence. Either, therefore, there is a good or this steady, 
durable kind, or there is not. If not, then all good must be 
transient and uncertain ; and if so, an object of thti lowest 
Taiue, which can little deserve our attention or iuquiry. 

68 The Englhk Reatkr. Pari I. 

i But if th^ero be a better good, such a good as w^ are seek- 
ing ; like erery other thing, it must be derived from soma 
cause ; aii^ that cause must either be external, internal, or 
mixed ; in as much as, except these three, there is ^o other 
possible. Now a steady, durable §ood, cannot be derived 
from an external cause ; since all derived from externals roust 
fluctuate^ as they fluctuate. 

S By the same rule, it cannot be derived from a mixture 
of the two ; because the part which is external, will propor- 
tionably destroy its eiisence. What then remains out the 
cause internal? the very cause which we have supposcKl, 
when we place the sovereign good in rnind^— in rectitude of 

conduct. HARRIS. 



Virtue andpidy man^s kigheat interest 

I FIND myself existing upon a little spot, surrounded every 
way by an immense, unknown expansion. — ^Where am 
I ? What sort of place do I inhabit ? Is it exactly accommo- 
dated in every instance to my convenience ? Is there no ex- 
cess of coldj none of heat, to offend me? Am I never an- 
noyed by animals, either of my own, or a different kind ? Is 
every thing subservient to me, as though I had ordered all 
myself? No — ^nothing like it — ^the farthest from it possible. 
S The world appears not, then, originally made for the 
private convenience of me alone ? — ^It does not But is it 
not possible so to accommodate it, by my own particular in- 
dustry ? If to accommodate man and beast, heaven and 
earth, if this be beyond me, it is not possible. What conse- 

5[uence then follows ; or can there be any other than this — 
f I seek an interest of my own, detached from that of others, 
I seek an interest which is chimerical, and which can never 
have existence. 

3 How then must I determine ? Have I no interest at all ? 
If I have not, I am stationed here to no purpose. But why 
no interest ? Can I be contented with none but one separate 
and detached ? Is a social interest, joined with otiiers, such 
an absurdity as not to be admitted ? The bee, tiie beaver, 
and the tribes of herdipg animals, are sutficient to convince 
me, that the thing is somewhere at least possible. 

4 How, then, am I assured that it is not equally true of 
man ? Admit it ; and what follows ? If so, then honour and 
justice are my interest ; then the whole train of moral virtues 
are my interest ; without some portion of which, not evcR 
thieves can ixndntain society. 

i Butf &rther still — I stop not here— I punue this social 

Ckap. 4. j4.^gumeniaiwe Piece$. 69 

interest as &r ail can trace my BeTeral relation!. iiMttfrom 
my own stock, my own neiehbourbood, my own iuition, to 
the whole race of mankmd, as dispersed throughout the 
«arth« Am 1 not related to them all, by the mutual aids of 
commerce, by the general intercourse of arts and letters, by 
that common nature of which we all participate ? 

6 Again — ^I must have food and clothing. Without a 
proper genial warmth, I instantly perish. Am I ttot related, 
m this view, to the very earth itself ; to the distant sun, 
from whose beams I derive vigour? to that stupendous course 
and order of the infinite host of heaven, by which the time* 
and seasons ever uniformly pass on ? 

7 Were ^this order once confounded, I could not probably 
survive a moment ; so absolutely do I depend, on tliis com- 
mon general welfare. What, then, have I to do, but to en- 
large vutue into piety ? Not only honour and justice, and 
what I owe to man, is my interest ; but gratitude also, acqui 
cscence, resdgnation, adoration, andalllowetothisgreatpoii 
ty, and its great Governor our common Parent ha&kis 


Ute inJtuiifR of an uncharUaiU ipiriL 

A SUSPICIOUS, uncharitable spirit, is not onlj mcon- 
sistent with all social virtue and happiness, but it is also. 
in itself, unreasonable and unjust In order to form sound 
opinions concerning characters and actions, two things ar» 
especially requiftte; information and impartiality. But such 
as are most forward to decide unfavourably, are commonly 
destitute of both. Instead of possessing, or even requiring, 
full information, the erounds on which mey proceed are fre- 
quently the most slight and frivolous. 

S A tale, perhaps, which the idle have invented, the inquis- 

Serated and disguised, supplies them wim materials of confi- 
ent assertion, and decisive judgment From an action, 
they presently look into the heart, and infer the motive. This 
supposed motive they conclude to be the ruUng principle ; 
and pronounce at once concerning the whole character. 

3 Nothing can be more contrary both to equity and to 
sound reason, tiian this precipitate judgment Any man who 
attends to what passes within Mmself, may easily discern 
what a complicated system the human character ia; and what 
a variety or circumstances must be taken into the account, in 
order to estimate it truly. No single instnn^^ of eondusC 
whatever, is sufficient to determiiM it 

70 The EngiRih Reatkr. PmtU 

4 Am from one worthy action, it were credtdlty, not cliari- 
tf. to conclude a person to be free from all vice ; so from one 
which is censurahle, it is perfectly unjust to infer that the 
author of it is without conscience, and widiout merit If we 
knew aU the attending circumstances, it might appear In an 
excusable light ; nay, perhaps, under a commendable form. 
The motives of the actor may have been entirely different 
from those which we ascribe to him ; and where we suppose 
him impelled by bad design, he may have been prompted by 
eonsdence, and mistaken principle 

5 Admitdne the action to have beeji in every view criminaL 
he may have oeen hurried into it through inadvertency and 
surprise. He may have sincerely repented ; and the virtuous 
principle may have now regained its full vigour. Perhaps this 
was the corner of frailty ; tne quarter on wnich he lay open to 
the incursions of temptation ; while the other avenues of his 
heart were firmly guarded by conscience. 

6 It is therefore evident, that no part of the government of 
temper, deserves attention more, than to keep Our minds 

Eure from uncharitable prejudices, and open to candour and 
umanity in judging of others. The worst consequences, 
both to ourselves and to sodety, fom)w from the opposite 
spirit BI.AIR. 


7%e misfartunei of men mosUy chargealie on IhemseUfei. 

WE 'fin^ man placed in a world, where he has by no 
means the disposal of the events that happen. Ca- 
lamities son^etimes befall the worthiest and the best, which 
it is not m their power to prevent, and where nothing is left 
them, but to admowled^ge^ and to submit to the high hand 
of Heaven. For such visitations of trial, many ^ootl and 
wise reasons ean be assigned, which the present subject leads 
me not to discuss. 

t But though those unavoidable calamities make a part, 
yet they make not the chief part, of the vexations and sor- 
rows that distress human life. A multitude of evils beset os, 
for the source of which we must look to another quarter. — 
No sooner has any thing in the health, or in the drcumstan- 
ces of men, gone cross to their wish, than they b^in to tajc 
of the unequal distribution of the good things of this life; 
they envT tne condition of others ; they repme at their own 
lot, and net against the Ruler of the world. 

9 F^l^ of these sentiments, one man pines under a broken 
•onstitution. But let us ask him, whether he can, fiurly and 

<Jkap. 4« ArgumeniaHve Fiecet. fl 

liooestlys assign no raose for this, but the unknown decree of 
Jieaven ? Has he duly valued the blessing of liealtfa, and aU 
-vrays observed the rules of virtue and sobriety? Has he 
been moderate in his life, and temperate in all his pleasures ? 
If now he is only paying the price of his former, perhaps hit 
forgotten indulgences, nas he any title to complain, as if he 
were sufiering unjustly ? 

4 Were we to' survey the chambers of sickness and dii- 
treaa, we should often find them peopled with the victims of 
intemperance"^ and sensuality, and with the children of vicious 
indolence and sloth. Among the thousands who languish 
there, we should find the proportion of innocent sufferers to 
be smaH. We should see faded youth, premature old age. 
and the prospect of an untimely grave, to be the portion of 
multitudes, who, in one way or other, have brought those 
evils on tlM'.mselves ; while yet these martyrs of vice and 
folly, have the assurance to arraign the hard fate of man, 
ana to ^ fret against the LonL" 

5 But you, perhaps, complain of hardships of another 
kind; of the injustice of the world; of the poverty which 
you suffer, and the discouragements under whi& you 
labour ; of the crosses and disappointments, of which your 
life has been doimied to be full. — ^Before you give too much 
scope to your discontent, let me desire you to reflect impar- 
tially upon your past train of life. 

6 Hav^ not sloth or pride, or ill temper, or sinful passioni. 
misled you oft^ from the path of sound and wise conduct f 
Jiave you not been wanting to yourselves in improving those 
opportunities which Providence offered you, for bettering 
and advancing your state? If you liav^ chosen to indulge 
your humour, or your taste, in the gratifications of indolence 
or pleasure, can you complain because others, in preference 
to you, have obtsuned those advantages which naturally* be- 
long to useful labours, and honourable pursuits ? 

7 Have not the consequences of some false step^ inte 
which your passions, or your pleasures, have betrayed you, 
pursued you through much ofyoivlife; tainted, perhaps, 
your characters, involved you in embarrassments, or sunk 
you into neglect? — ^It is an old saying, that every man ia 
the artificer of his own fortune in the world. It is certaiii» 
that tiie world seklom turns wholly against a man, unlcM 
through his own fiuiU. ^ Religion is," m general, *^ profita^ 
ble unto all things.'' 

8 Virtue, diligence, and industry, joined with good tm- 
per, and prudence, have ever been found the surest road to 
pffoepent|';aiid wjuwe bmp faM of etta iping it, their -wmA el 

72 T^ English Reader Pari i. 

mce/&», . n lar oftentsr owing .o {heir having A«nated from tha« 
road, than to their having encountered insuperable bars in 
It Some, by being too artful, forfeit the reputation of 
probity. Some, by oeing too open, are accounted to fail 
in prudence. Others, by being nckle and changeable, are 
distrusted by all. 

. 9 The case commonly is, that men seek to ascribe their 
dbappomtments to any cause, rather than to their ovni mis- 
conduct ; and when t^ey can devise no other cause, they lay 
them to the charge of Providence. Their folly leads them 
into vices ; their vices into misfortunes ; and in their misfor- 
tunes they <^ murmur against Providence." 

1 They are doubly unjust towards then* Creator. In their 
prosperity, they are apt to ascribe their success to their own 
diligence, rather than to his blessing : and in their advcirsity, 
they impute their distresses to his providence, not to their 
own misbehaviour. Whereas, the truth is the very reverse 
of this. ** Every good and every perfect gift, cometh from 
above;" and oi evil and misery, man is llie author tc 

« himself. 

11 When, from the condition of individuals, we look 
abroad to the public state of the worl d, w e meet with more 
proofs of the truth of this assertion. We see great societies 
of men, torn in pieces by intestine dissentions, tumults, and 
dvil commotidns. We see miehty armies going forth, in 
formidable array, aesdnst each other, to cover the earth with 
blood, and to nil tne air with the cries of widows and 
orphans. Sad evils these are, to which this miserable world 
k exposed. 

1£ But are these evils, I beseech you, to be imputed to 
God? Was it he who sent foith slaughtering armies 4)to the 
field, or who filled the^ peaceful dty with massacres and 
blood ? Are these miseries any other than the bitter fruit of 
men's violent and disorderly passions ? Are they not clearly 
to be traced to the ambition, and vices of pnnces, to the 
quanrels of the great, and to tne turbulence or the people ?— 
.!Let us lay them entirely out of the account, in tnmking 
of Provioence ; and let us think only of the '< foolishness 
of man." 

IS Did man control his passions, and form his conduct 
according to the dictates of wisdom, humanity, and^virtue, 
the earth would no longer be desolated by cruelty ; and human 
societies would live in order, harmony, and peace. Id those 
scenes of mischief and violence which fill the world, let 
man behold, vrith shame, the pifiture of his vices, his imor^ 
mtt% and felly. Let wbol hm humbled by the momjw^ 

Chap, 4. Argumentaihe Pteret. 

Tiew of Ilk o^n jM:rversene88 ; but let not hlt*'&etrt fril 
mguxM the Lord.'' blaia* 

On disinierttUd friendihp. 

I AM iDformftd that certain Greek writers, (phflo8opnef% 
it seems, in the opinion of their countrvmen,) have advai^ 
ced some very extraordinary positions relating to friendship ; 
asy indeed, what subject is there, which these subtle geniuses 
hafenot tortured with their sopnistry ? 

2 The authors to whom I refer, dissuade theur disciples 
from^ entering into any strong attachments, as unavoidably 
creating supernumerary disouictudes to those who engage in 
them ; anct, as every man nas more than sufficient to caQ 
forth his solicitude, in the cours? of his own affairs, it is a weak- 
ness, they contend, anxiously to involve himself in the coo- 
ceros of others. 

S Thev recommend it also, in all connexions of this kinH,t 
to hold tne liands of union extremely loose ; so as always to 
have it in one's power to straiten or relax them, as circum« 
stances and situations shall render most expedient Thej 
add, as a capital article of their doctrine, tliat, ^ to live ex- 
empt from cjires, is an essentia] inrredient to constitute hu- 
man hapnini>ss : but an ingredient, nowever, which he, who 
voluntarily distresses himself witn cares, in which he has 
no necessary and personal interest, must never hope to 

4 I have be<*n told likewise, that there is another set of 
pretended philosophers, of the same country, whose tenets, 
f'oncerning this subject, are of a still more illiberal and un- 
generous cast The proposition which thoy attempt to estab- 
lish, is, that ** friendship is an affair of seif-interest entirely ; 
and that the proper motive for engaj^^in it, is*, not in order 
to gratify the kind and benevolent affections, but for ihh bene- 
fit of that assistance and support, which are to be derived 
from the connexion. " 

5 Accordingly they assert, that those persons are most 
disposed to h^ive recourse to auxiliary alliances of this kind 
who are buist qualified by nature or fortune, to depend upon 
theiffiwn strength and powers : the weaker sex, for instance, 
iMriitg icpiienilly more inclined to engage in friendships, than 
the male part of our species ; and those who are depressed 
by indigi^nce, or labouring uader misfortunesi than the 
wealthy, and the prosperous. 

6 Excellent and oblirini^ sages, these, undoubtedly ! To 
strike out the friendly a&etions firon tkie morml world« w«iiM 

74 The Bngliih Reader. ^ Part 1. 

be like extinguishing the son in the natural ; each of them 
beine the source of the best and most grateful satisfiicticHis 
that Heaven has conferred on the sons ofmen. But I should 
be glad to know, what the real value of tlus boasted exemp- 
tion from care, which they promise their disciples, justly 
amounts to ? an exemption flattering to self-love, I confess; 
but wy ch, upon many occurrences m human life, should be 
rejected ^itii the utmost disdain. 

7 For nothing, surely, can be more inconsistent with a 
well-poised and manly spirit, than to decline engaging in any 
laud2U)le action, or to oe discouraged from persevering in it, 
by an apprehension of the trouble and solidtude, with which 
It may probably be attended. 

8 virtue herself, indeed, ought to be totally renounced, if 
it be right to avoid every possible means that may be produc- 
tive of uneasiness : for yfho, that is actuated by her princi- 
ples, can observe the conduct of an opposite character, vnth- 
out being affected with some degree of secret dissatisfaction ? 

9 Are not the just, the brave, and the good, necessarily 
exposed to the disagreeable emotions of dislike and aversion, 
when they respectivejy meet with instances of fraud, of cow- 
ardice, or of villany ? It b an essential property of every 
well-constituted mind, to be affected with pain or pleasure, 
according to the nature of those moral appearances that pre- 
sent themselvse to observation. 

10 If sensibility, tiierefore, be not incompatible with true 
wisdom, (and it surely is not, unless we suppose thatphiloso- 
phy deadens every finer feeling of our nature,) what just rea- 
son can be assigned, wh^ the sympathetic sufferings which 
may result from friendship, should be a sutBdent incmcement 
for 1)anishing that generous afifection from the human breast? 

1 1 Extinguish sal emotions of the heart, and what differ- 
ence wiU remain, I do not say between man and brute, but 
between man and a mere inanimate clod ? Away then with 
those austere philosophers, who represent virtue as hardening 
tlie soul against all the softer impressions of humanity ! 

12 The fact, certainly, is much otlierwise. A truly good 
man, is, upon many occasions, extremely susceptible often- 
der sentiments ; and his heart expands with joy, or shrinks 
with sorrow, as good or ill fortune accompanies his friend. 
Upon the whole, theuj it may fairly be concluded^ that, as 
in the case of virtue, so m that of friendship, those painful sen- 
sations which may sometimes be produced by Uie one, ds well 
ashy the other, are equally insumcient groundsfor exduding 
ekher of them from taking possession of our bosoms. 

t0 Ther whd iaaitt that '< utility is the fini ami prandling 

Chop. 4. Argumentaiive FhcM. 75 

moCiTe, which induces mankind to enter into pnitkular ftiead 
ships,'' appear to me to divest the association of its most amia 
bJe and engaging principle. For to a mind rightly disposed, 
it is not so much the benefits received, as the aSectioiiate zeal 
from which they ilow, that gives them their best and moat 
valuable recommendation. 

14 It is so far indeed from being verified by fact) that a 
sense of our wants is the original cause of forming tliese ami- 
cable alliances ; that, on the contrary, it is observable, that 
none have been more distinguishf«d in their friendships, than 
those whose power and opulence, but, above all. whose supe- 
rior virtue, (a much firmer support,) have raisea them above 
every necessity of having recourse to the assistance of others. 

15 The true distinction^ then, in the question, is, that ** al- 
though friendship is certainly productive of utility, yet utility 
is not the priraaiy motive pftnendiship.''* lliose selfish sen- 
sujilists, therefore, who, lulled in the lap of luxury, pre- 
sume to maintain the reverse, have surely no claim to atten- 
tion ; as they are neither quuified by reflection, nor experi- 
ence, to be competent judges of the sttbject. 

16 Is there a man upon the fiaice of the earth, who would 
deliberately accept or all the wealth, which this world can 
bestow, if offered to him upon the severe terms of his beinr^; 
unconnected with a single mortal whom he could love, or by 
whom he should be beloved ? Hiis would be to lead the 
wretched life of a detested tyrant,. who, amidBt perpetual 
suspidons and alarms, passes his miserable daY& a stranger 
to every tender sentiment ; and utterly prechiaea from toe 
heartfelt satisfactions of friendship. 

MdmoUCs Uraimatian of Cicero's Jjdiua. 


On the immortality of the soiU. 

WAS yesterday walking alone, in one of my friend's 
woods, and lost myself in it very agreeably, as 1 was run- 
ning over, in, my mind, the several arguments that establish 
this great point ; which is the basis of morality, and the 
source of all the pleasing hopes and secret joys, that can arise 
in the heart of a reasonanle creature. 

a. I considered those several proofe drawn — ^First, fitmi the 
nature of the soul itself, and particularly its immateriality * 
which, though notabsoiutel^ necessary totfaeet^nity of its ca- 
ration, has, Ithink, been evinced to almost a demonstration 

3 Sec^ondly, from its passions and sentiments ; ns, par- 
ticularly, from its love of existence ; its horror o( anninila- 
tion ; and its hopes of immortality ; with that secret saio- 


fS ne BnglUh Reader. Pari. 1. 

fMm wMd^ ft ftads in tiie practice of virtne ; and that linear- 
rioeaa which follows upon the commission of vice. — ^Hiirdlyy 
from the nature of the Supreme Being, whose justice, good- 
ness, wisdom, and veracity, are all concerned in this point. 

4 But among these, and other excellent arguments for the 
immortality of the soul, there is one drawn from the peipeto- 
al progress of tiie soul to its Perfection, without a possibility 
of ever arriving at it ; which is a hint that I do not remember 
to have seen opened and improved by those who have writ- 
ten on this Bubf ect, though it seems to me to carry a very 
great weight with it 

5 How can it enter into the thoughts of man, that the soul, 
which is capable of immense perfections, and of receiving 
new improvements to all etemitv, shall fall away into nothings 
almost as soon as it is created f Are such abilities made for 
no purpose ? A brutfe arrives at a p<|int of perfection, that he 
can never pass : in a few years he has all the endowments he 
is capable of; and were he to live ten thousand more, woidd 
lie the same thing he is at present 

6 Were a human soul thus at a stand in her accomplish- 
ments ; were her faculties to be full blown, and incapable of 
farther enlaKements ; I could imagine she might fall away in- 
sensibly, ana drop at once into a state of annihilation. But 
can we believe a tninking being, that is in a perpetual progress 
of improvement, and travelling on from perfection to pmec- 
tion, after having just looked abroad into the works of her 
Creator, and made a few discoveries of his infinite goddness. 
wisdom, and power, must perish at her first setting out, and 
u the very be^nnins of her inouiries? 

7 Man, considerea only in nis present state, seems sent 
into the world merely to propagate his kind. He provides 
himself with a successor, and immediately quits his post to 
make room for him. He does not seem born to enjoy life, 
l»!it to deliver it down to others. This is not surprising to 
consider in aninials, which are formed for our use, and which 
can finish their business in a short life. 

8 The silk-worm, after having spun her task, lays her 
eggs and (Ges. But a man cannot tsike in his full measure 
of knowledge, has not time to subdue his passions, establish 
his sold in virtue, and come up to the perfection of his na- 
ture, before he is hurried off the stage. Would an infinitely 
wise Being, make such glorious creatures for so mean a pur- 
pose? Can he delieht in the production of such abortive, in- 
telligences, such snort-lived reasonable beings? Would he 
give us talents that are not to be exerted ? capacities that 
.are never to be grat^ied? 

9 How can w« find tfiatniidoin which ihlneft through aD 
Ilk works, in tiie formatioo of inan> without lookioe on this 
'vrorid as only a nursery for the next ; and without believing 
that the several generaddons of radonal creatures, which rise 
up and disappear in such miick successions, are only to 
leeeiTe their nrst mdlments oi existence here, iad afterwards 
to be transolaQted into a more friendly climate, where they 
may njpmaa and flourish to ad eternity ? 

10 There is not, m my opinion, a more pleasing and tri- 
umphant consideration inrengion, than this of the perpetual 
progress. Which the soul makes towards the perfection of its 
nature, without ever arriving at a period in it To look 
upon the soul as goinc on from strength to strength ; to con- 
mer that she is to saine for ever with new accessions of 
^lorj) and brighten to all eternity ; that she wiD be still add- 
mg virtue to virtue, and knowledge to knowledge ; carries 
in it something wonderfully agreeable to that ambiti<Mi, which 
IS natural to me mind of man. Nay, it must be a prospect 
pleasing to Qod himself, to see his creation for ever beauti- 
fying in his eyes ; and drawing nearer to him, by greater de- 
grees of resemblance. 

11 Methinks this single eonsidentionj of the progress of a 
fimte spirit to perfection, will be sufficient to extinguish all 
envy in inlerite natures, and all contempt in superior. That 
cherub, which now appears as a god to a human soul, knows 
rerj well that the penod vrill come about in eternity, when 
the numan soul shall be as perfect as he himself now is : nay, 
when she shall look down upon that degree of perfection, as 
much as she now falls short of it It is true, the higher na« 
ture still advances, and by that means preserves his distancei 
and superiority in the scale of bein^ : yet he knows that. 
how high soever the station is of which he stands possessed 
at present, the inferior natiire will, at length, mount up to 
it, and shine forth in the same degree of glory. 

IS With what astonishment and veneration, may we look 
into our own souls, where there are such hidden stores of vir- 
tue and knowledge, such inexhausted sources of perfection! 
We know not yet what we shall be : nor will it ever enter into 
the heart of man, to conceive the dory that \si\\ be always in 
reserve for him. The soul, considered with its Creator, is 
lUce one of those mathematical lines, that may draw nearer 
to another for all eternity, without a possibility of touching it: 
and can there be a thoucnt so transporting, as to consider our- 
selves in these perpetuu approaches to him, who is the stand- 
ard not only of perfection,lMit of haq^piness ? addisov 

O s 

7n ' Tke EmgUsk kNidmr. Paril. 





AMONG the great bleesing^ and wooden ofthe creatian, 
may be daSied the ragulariUes of tim««« and sesaaona. 
Imiiiediately after the load, thaMeredproBiiaeMnismadeto 
maiH that aeed-time and harvest, cold and heat, amxuDer 
and winter, day and nij^ht, should continue to the very end 
of an thingil. Accordingly, in obedience to tUt prpmise, 
^e rotation ia constantly presenting us with some useful and 
agreeable alteration ; ana all the pleasing novelty of li^^ 
anses from these natural changes ; nor are we less indebted 
to them for many of its solid comforts. 

2 It has been frequently the task of the moralist and poet, 
to mark, in polished periods, the particular charms and 
conveniences of every change ; and, indeed, such discrim- 
inate observatiohs upon natural variety, cannot be undelight- 
ful ; since the blesring which every month brings cUonK with 
it is afresh instance of the wisdom and bounty ofthii i^rov- 
idence, which regulates the glories of the year, m rlow 
as we contemplate; we feel a propensity to ^dore, v nilst 
we enjoy. 

8 In the thne of eeed-eowing, it is the season of confi- 
dence : the grain which the husbandman trusts to the b.«'M>m 
of the earm, shall, haply, yield its seven-fold rewa ^Is. 
Spring presents usvwith a scene of lively expectsition. Ti ^ 
wnich was before sown, begins now to discover signs of suc- 
cessful vegetation. The labourer observes tlie change, and 
anticipates the harvest ; he watches the projp*ess of nature, 
and smiles at her influence : while the man ofcontemplation, 
walks forth with the evening, amidst the fragrance of flow- 
ars, vad promises of plenty ; nor returns to iiis cottRge till 
darkness closes the scene apon his eye. Then cometb the 
harvest, when the lar(pe wbh b satisAeid, and the granaries of 
natkire, are loaded with the means of life, even to a luxury 
af abundance. 

4 The powers of langua^ are unequal to the description 
af this hapoy season. It is the carnival of nature : sun and 
shade, coolness and ^metude, cheerfulness and melody, 
love and gratitude^ mute to render every scene of summer 
deliahtful. The division of light and darkness is one of the 
kinaeat efforts of Onmipoteiit Wisdom. Day and nigjht 
yiild us contrarvblessiDcs; and, at the suiie time, amit 
aMk aiiwr, by pmg fimdi Mra to the dd^bii of bolk 

CiMp. ty. Dumpiive Fieea. ' 7!9 

AmNfrt the |^re of dajr, and bustle of life, bow could ^ v 
sleep f Amidst the gloom of darkness, how could wu lubour ? 
5 How wise, how benignaot, then, is the proper divisiou! 
The hours of light, are adapted to activity ; and those of 
darkness, to rest Ere the day is passed, exercise and nu* 
ture prepare us for the pillowy and by the time that tlm 
momuig returns, we are acain able to meet it with a smile. 
Tfaa% eTeiT season has a charm fMculiar to itself; and every 
moment aiferds some interesting innovation. iiei.iiotii. 

T%t tattttad (^MagarOf in Canada^ ^fMh America, 

THIS amazing fiiH of water, is made by the river St. Law- 
rence, in its passage from lake Erie into the lake Onta- 
rio. The St. Lawrence is one of the bir^i^st rivers in the 
wofM, and yet the whole of its waters is discbar^ed in this 
place, by a fall of a hundred and fifty feet p«r])enoicular., It 
n net easy to bring the imagmation to correspond to the great- 
neas of the scene. 

ft A river extremely deep and rapid, 4ind that serves tr 
drain the waters of almost all North America into the Atlan- 
tic Ocean, is here poured precipitately down a Icd^e of rork», 
that arises, like a wall, across the wnole bed or Us stream. 
The river, a little above, is near three quarters of a mile 
broad ; and the rocks, where it grows narrower, are four 
hundred yards over. ^ 

S Their direction is not straight across, but hollowing in- 
wards like a horse-shoe : so that the cataract, which bends 
to the shape of the obstacle, rounding inwards, presents a 
kind of theatre, the most tremendous in nature. Just in 
the middle of this circular wall of waters, a little island, that 
has braved the fury of the current, presents one of its ]>oints, 
and divides the stream at top into two parts ; but they 
unite ag^ long before they reach the bottom. 

4 Tne noise of the fall, is heard at the distiince of sevenil 
leagues, and the fvaj of the waters, at tiie termination of 
their fall, is inconceivaUe. The dashing produces a mist, 
that rises to the very clouds ; and which (orms a most beatiti- 
fid rainbow, when the sun shines. It will be readily su^h 
posed, that such a cataract entirely destroys the navigation 
of the stream ; and. vet, some Indians, in their canoes, as it 
is said, have venturea down it with safety.^ oold smith. 


* TbU MUlHrnf 4*V* ** "if'^h ^ • *«po»^ bcuiag npon Itt from te «wii 
VtfUaliim : Umtll ilmiU m/m km» AnumI • plac* in the bnitai or the boek o( 
tl»el«faptMilprlvHl»«iiiaMaraCNnvriM. € ■■■■■ aad ether i mmIi i with 
I aw, indeed, ■ametimet unSatuum^ 4nm» dof» t>« i 

8Q n9 EMglUh Readtr. Pari I. 



OK an the subterraneous cayems now known, the grotto of 
Antiparos, is the most remarkable, as weU for its 
extent, as for the beauty of its sparry incrustations. This 
celebrated cavern was first explored by one Magni, an Ital- 
ian traveller, about one hundred years ago, at Antiparos, an 
inconsiderable island of the Archipelaeo. 

2 ** Havinz been informed,*' says he, " by the natives of 
Paros, that, m the little island of Antiparos, which lies about 
two miles from the former, a gigantic statue was to be seen 
at the mouth of a cavern in that place, it was resolved that 
we (the French consul and himself) should pay it a visit. In 
pursuance of this resolution, after we had landed on the 
island, and walked about four miles through the midst of 
beautiful plains, and sloping woodlands, we at length came 
to a little hill, on the side of which yawned a most horrid 
cavern, which, by its gloooi, at first, strudc us with terror, 
and almost repressed curiosity. 

d Recoverinff the first surprise, however, we entered 
boldly ; and had not proceeded above twenty paces, when 
the supposed statue of the giant, presented itself to our view» 
We quickly perceived, that what the ignorant natives had 
been terrified at as a gmnt, was nothing more than a sparry 
concretion, formed by the water dropping from the roof 
of the cave, and by decrees hardening mto a figure, which 
their fears had formed into a monster. 

4 Incited by this extraordinary appearance, we were •»« 
duced to proceed still further, in quest of new adventures in 
this subterranean abode. As we proceeded, new wonders 
offered themselves; the spars, formed into trees and shrubs, 
presented a kind of petrified grove ; some white, some f^eeea ; 
and all receding in due perspective. They struck us with the 
more amazement^ as we knew them to be mere productions 
of nature, who, hitherto in solitude, had, in her playful mo- 
ments, dressed tixe scene, as if for her own amusement." 

5 ^ We had as yet seen but a few of the wonders of the 
place ; and we were introduced only into the portico of this 
amazing temple. In one comer of^this half illuminated re- 
cess, there appeared an opening of about three feet wide, 
which seemedT to lead to a place totally dark, and which one 

tHiHty, but Midom a vettigt of dtlMr ff«r«r allenmnlt Men. Tim ttiinlf 
osk, and tht tow«riBf pln«» fwg pt mly tilw tb* 4ttfwtif Utf^ wi 


Chap. 5. Deicriptipe Pieee$. M 

of the natives aatored us contained nothing more tiian.a reser- 
voir of i^ater. Upon this information, we made an experi- 
ment, by throwing dow^ some stones, which rumbling along 
the sides of the descent for some time, the sound seemed at 
last uuushed in a bed of water. 

6 In order, however, to be. more certain, we sent in a ]>- 
vantine mariner, wlio, by the promise of a eood reward, ven- 
tured, vrith a flambeau m his hand, into uds narrow* aper- 
ture. After continuing within it for about a quarter of an 
hour, he returned^ bearing in his hand, some beautiful pieces 
of white spar, which art could neither equal nor imitate. — 
Upon being informed by him that the place was AiU of these 
beautiful incrustations, I ventured in with him, about fifty 
paces, anxiously and cautiously descending, b} a steep and 
danserous way. 

7 Finding, however, that we came to a precipice which led 
into a spacious amphitheatre, (if I may so call it,) still deeper 
than any other part, we returned, and beinff provided with 
a ladder, flambeau, and other things to expeaite our descent, 
our whole company, man by man, ventured into the same 
opening; and, descending one after another, we at last saw 
ourselves aU together in the nH»t magniflcent part of the 



T%B gntto ofMtipaarot^ wnHnwd, 

^/^UR candles being now all lighted up, and the whole 
V^ place completely illuminatea, nev«r could the eye be 
presented with^ more glittering; or a more magniflcent scene. 
The whole roof hung with solid icicles, transparent as class, 
yet solid as marblb. The eye could scarcely reach the lofty 
and noble ceiling ; the sides were regularly formed with spars ; 
and the whole presented the idea of a magniflcent theatre, 
illuminated witn an immense profusion of lights. 

2 The floor consisted of solid marble ; and, in several 
places, magniflcent columns, thrones, altars, and other 
objects, appeared^ as if nature had desired to mock the curi- 
osities of art. Ouri voices, upon speakms, or singinff, were 
redoubled to an ast6nisliine loudness ; ana unon the firing of 
a gun, the noise and reverberations, were almost deafening. 

9 In the midst of this grand amphitheatre, rose a concretion 
of about fifteen feet high, that, in some measure, resembled 
an altar ; from which, taking tne hint, we caused mass to be 
celebrated there. The beautiful columns that shot up round 
the altar, appeared like candlesticks ; and many other natural 
objects, r^resented the customary ornaments of this rite." 

S2 . The EnglUh Head^* Parti. 

4 ^ Feiow even this spacious erotto, tiiere teemed another 
cavern ; down which I ventured with my former mariner, 
and descended about fifty paces by means of a rope* 1 at last 
arrived at a smail spot of level ground^ where the bottom 
appeared different from that of the amphitheatre, being: com- 
posed of soft clay, yielding to the pressure, and into which I 
thrust a stick to the depth of six feet. In this, however, as 
above, numbers of the most beautiful crystals were formed ; 
one of which, in particular, resembled a table. 

5 Upon our egress from this amaung cavern, we pereeived 
a Greek inscription upon a rock at the mouth, but so oblit- 
erated by time, that we could not read it distinctly. It seem- 
ed to import, that one Antipater, in the time oi Alexander, 
had come hither : but whether he penetrated into the dcnpths 
of the cavern, he does not thmk fit to inform us." — ^This 
account of so beautiful and striking a scene, may serve to 
giveus some idea of the subterraneous wonders of nature. 



Earthquake at CatanetL 

ONE of the earthquakes mostparticulariy described in his- 
tory, is that which happened in the year 169d ; the dam- 
ilges of which, were chieflv felt in Sidly, but its motion was 
perceived in Germany, France, and England. It extended 
to a circumference of tivo thousand six hundred leagues ; 
ehiefly affecting the sea-coasts, and great rivers ; more per^ 
ceivanle also upon the mountains, than in the valleys. 

2' Its motions were so rapid, that persons who uj at their 
length, were tossed from side to side, as upon a rrnhng bil- 
low. The walls were dashed from their foundations ; keA no 
fewer than fiftv-four citied, with an incredible number of vil> 
laces, were eitner destroyed or greatiy damaged. The citv 
of Catanea, in particular, was utterly overthrown. A travel- 
ler who was on his way thither, perceived^ at the distance of 
some miles, a black cloud, like night, hanging over the place. 

3 The sea, all of a sudden, began to roar; mount ^tna, 
to send forth great spires of flame; and soon after a shock 
ensued, with a noise as if all tiie artillery in the worid had 
been at once discharged. Our traveller being obliged to 
alight instantiy, felt himself raised a foot from the ground ; 
:iua turning his eyes to the city, he with amazement saw 

othing but a thick cloud of dust in the air. 

4 The birds flew about astonished ; the sun was darkened ; 
the beasts ran howling frorik the hills; and although the shock 
did not continue above three minutes, yet near nineteen 

Chap .5. Deseriptiee Pieces, 83 

thousand of the inhabitants of Sicily, perished ta the ru- 
ins. CataneH, to which city the descnber was trayeDlng 
SH<^nipd the principal scene of ruin ; its place only was to be 
found, and not a foiitstep of its former magnificence was to 
be seen remaining. eeLD smith. 



IN the progress of the Divine works and goremment, 
there arnVed a period, in which this earth, was to be 
called into existence. When the signal moiment, predes- 
tined from all eternity, was come, the Deity arose in his 
might, and, with a word, created the world. — ^What an 
illustrious moment was that, when, from non-existence, 
there sprane at once into being, this mighty globe, on which 
so many millions of creatures now dwdJ ! 

2 No preparatory measures were required. No long 
circuit of means was emplo^red. ^ He spake, and it was 
done : he commanded ; and it stood fast The earth was 
at first without form, and void ; and darkness was on the 
face of the deep." The Almighty survejed the dark abyss ; 
and fixed bounds to the several divisions of nature. He 
said, ^ Let there be lisht ; and there was light" 

3 Then appeared the sea, and the dry land. The moun- 
tains rose; and the rivers flowed. The sun, and moon, 
t>egan their course in the skies. Herbs and plants clothed 
the ground. The air, the earth, and the waters, were 
stored with their respective Inhabitants. At last, man was 
made after the image of Ood. 

4 He appeared, walking with countenance erect ; and re- 
cdved his Creator's benediction, as the lord of this new world. 
The Almichty beheld his work when it was finished ; and 
pronouncea it good. Superior beings saw, with wonder, this 
new accession to existence. " The morning stars sang to* 
gether ; and all the sons of God, shouted for joy." — blaiwl 


CHARITY is the same with benevolence or love ; and is 
the term uniformly employed in the New Testament, to 
denote all the good affections which we ought to bear towards 
one. another. It consists not in speculative ideas of general 
benevolence, floating in the head, and leaving the heart, as 
speculations too often do, untouched and cold. Neither is 
ft confined to that indolent good nature, which makes us rest 
satisfied with being free from inveterate maliee, or ill-wiJI to 

84 Tke Bnfk9h Reader. Pari h 

oar fdlow-creatures, without proixq)ting us to be of ienric« 
to any. ' 

ft True charitT, is an active principle. It is not properly 
a single virtue ; but a disposition residing in the, heart, as a 
fountain whence^ll the virtues of benignity, candour, for- 
bearance, generosity, compassion, and liberality} flow, as 
so many native streams. From general good-will to aJl, it 
extends, its influence pajfticularly to those with whom we 
stand in nearest connexion, and who are directly within the 
sphere of our good offices. 

5 From the country or community to which we belong, 
it descends to the smaller associations of neighbourhood^ re- 
lations, and friends ; and^ spreads itself over the whole circle 
of sodal and domestic life. I mean not that it imports a 
promiscuous undistinguished affection^ which gives every man 
an equal title to our love. Charity, if we should endeavour 
to carry it so far, would be rendered an impracticable vir- 
tue; and would resolve itself into mere words, without 
affecting the heart. 

4 True charity attempts not to shut our eyes to the dis- 
tinction between good and bad men ; nor to warm our 
hearts equally to those who befriend, and those who injure 
lift. It reserves our esteem for good men, and our compla- 
cency for our friends. Towards our enenoies, it inspires for- 
giveness, humanity, and a solicitude for their welfare. It 
Breathes universal cjadour, and liberality of sentiment. It 
forms gentleness of temper, and dictates affability of manners. 

5 It prompts corresponding sympathies with them who 
rejoice, and tibem who weep, it teaches us to slight and de- 
spise no man. Charity is the comforter of the afflicted, the 
protector of the oppressed, the recondier of difiierences, Ibe 
intercessor for offenders. It is faithfulness in the friend, pub- 
lic spirit in the magistrate, equity and patience in the judge, 
moderation in the sovereign, and loyalty in the subject. ^ 

6 In parents, it is care and attention^ in children, it is 
reverence and submission. In a word, it is the soul of social 
life. ~ It is the sun that enlivens and cheers the abodes of 
men. It is ** like the dew of Hermon," says the Psalmist, 
'* and the dew that /descended on the mountains of Zion, 
where the Lord commanded the blessing, even life for eve* 
more.'* bjlais. 


PfiuperUy U redotMed to a good man. 

NONE but the temperate, the regular, and the virtuous 
know how to enjoy prosperity. They bring to its cone 


Ctap. 9 DeBCriptive Pkcet* 85 

forts the manly relish of a sound uncornipted mind. They 
stop at the nroper point, before enjoyment degenerates into 
di^^ust, ana pleasure b converted into pain. They aie 
stra&sers to those complaints whid) flow from spleen, caprice 
and aU the fimtastieaj distresses of a vitiated mind. While 
riotous indulgence enervates both the body and the mind 
purity and virtue, heighten all the powers of human fruition 

2 Feeble are all pleasures in which the heart has no share 
The selfish gratifications of the bt*d, are both narrow in tlieh 
cirde, and short in their duration. But prosperity is re- 
doubled to a good man, by his generous use of it It is re- 
jBectedback upon him from every one whom he makes happy. 
In the intercourse of dmncstic affection, in the attachment of 
friends, the gratitude of dependants, the esteem and good- 
will of an who know hioo, he sees blessings multiplied on 
every side. 

3 ^ When the ear heard me, then it blessed me ; and when 
the eye saw me, it gave witness to me : because I delivered 
the poor that cried, the fatherless, and him that had none to 
help hipa. The blessing of him that was ready to perish came 
upon me, and I caused tne widow's heart to sing with joy. I 
was eyes to the blind, and feet was I to the lame 1 1 ' was a 
fether to the poor ; ana the cause which I knew not| 1 search « 

4 Thus, while the righteous man flourishes like a tree 
planted by the. rivers of water, he brings forth also his fruit 
ui its season : and thcit fruit be brings forth, not for himself 
alooe. He flourishes, not like a tree in some solitary desert, 
which scatters its blossoms to tiie wind, and communicates 
neithtrr fhnt nor shade to any living thing : but like a tree in 
the midst of an iohaluted count^, which to some affords 
friendly shelter, to others fruit ; which is not only admired 
by ail ror its beauty ; but blessed by the traveller for the shade, 
and by the hungry for the sustenance it hath givea 


On the beauHes of (he PatdtM. 

GREATNESS confers no exemption from the cares and 
sorrows of life : its i^are af tnem, frequently bears a 
melancholy proportion to its exaltation. This the monarch 
of Israel experienced. He sought in ||iety, that peace which 
he could not find in empire ; and alleviated the disquietudes 
of state, with the exercises of devotion. His invaluable 
Psalms, convey tiiose comforts to others, whieh they afforded 
to himself 

89 The EngMi Reader. Part 1« 

t CoQf^posed upon particular occasions^ yet doigDed for 
ceneral use ; delivered out as services for Israelites under the 
Law, yet qo luss adapted to the circumstances of Christiaiis un- 
der the Gospel ; they present religion to us in the mosteiigii- 
ging dress; communicating truths which ))hilosophy coidd nev- 
er investigate, in a st^'le wiiich poetry can never ecjual ; nrhile 
history is made the vehicle of prophecy, and creation lends aU 
its charms to paint the glories of redemption. 

H Calculated alike to profit and to please, they inform the 
understanding, elevate the affections, and entertain the im- 
agination. Indited under the influence of him, to whom all 
hearts are known, and all events foreknown, they suit man- 
kind In all situations ; grateful as the manna which descended 
from above, and confirmed itself to eveij palate. 

4 The fairest productioiis of human wit, after a few peni>- 
sals, like gathered flowers, wither in our hands^ and lose tiieir 
fragrancy : but these unfading plants of paradise, become^ as 
we are accustomed to them^ still more aud more beaotifcil; 
their bloom appears to be daily heightened ; fresh odours are 
emitted, and new sweets extracted from them. He who has 
once tasted their excellences, will desire to taste them again ; 
and he who tastes them oftenest, will relish them best. 

5 And now. could the author flatter himself, that any one 
would take half the pleasure in readine his work, which he 
has taken in writing it, he would not tear the loss of his la- 
hour. The employment detached him from the bustle and 
hurry of life, the din o Politics, and the noise of folly. Vani- 
ty and vexation, |ieW away for a season ; care ana disqui- 
etude came not near his dwelling. He arose, fresh as the 
morning, to his task; the silence of the nieht, invited him 
to pursue it ; and he can truly say, that food and rest, were 
not preferred before it 

6 Every psalm unproved infinitely upon his acquaintance 
with it, and no one gave him uneasiness but the last: for then 
he grieved that his work was done. Happier hours than 
those which have been spent in these meditations on the songs 
of Sion, he never ejcpects to see in this world. Very pleas- 
antly did they pass; they moved smoothly and swiftly along: 
for wiien thus engaged, he counted no time. They are gone ; 
but they have left a relish and a fn^ance upon the mind ; 
and the remembrance of them is sweet. horne. 


Character of XhTKmDtking qf England, 

THE merit of this prince, both in private and public life, 
mayi with advantage, be set in opoowtion to that of any 

mwuurtk Of afSmhf which the manaki of any age, or any 
nadoiiy eanpraKDt to us* Ho leems, indeed, to be thi) 
eompfetB model of tliat perfect character, which, under the 
denooMnatioD of a sa^e or wise man, the phikwoj^ers have 
been food of defineatinf , nther aa a fiction of their imagina- 
tion, than in hopes of ever seeing it rpduoed to practice : bo 
happilv were all his virtqes temnered together; to justly 
were tney blended ; and so powerniliy did each prevent the 
other from exeeeding its proper bounds. 

ft He knew how to conciliate tlie most enterprising spirit, 
with the coolest moderation ; the most obstinate persever- 
ance, with the easiest flexibility; the most severe justice, 
with the greatest lenity \ the greatest rigour in command, 
with the ipraatest affability of oeportment ; the hisbest capa« 
city and uiclination for science, with the piost smning tal* 
eots for action. 

SNature also, as if desirous thatso bricht aproduotion of her 
BkUl should be set in the tairest Ught, Tiad oestowed on him 
all bodily accomplishments; vigour of limbs, dignity of shape 
^od air, and a pleasant, engaging, and open countenance. 
By UYidg in that barbarous age, he was deprived of histori 
9ns wortny to transmit his fame to posterior ; and we wish 
to aee him delineated in more lively colours, and with more 
particular strokes, that we might at least perceive some o. 
thoee small specks and blemishes, from which, as a man, it 
ia impossible ne could be entirely ^Eempted hums. 


THERE are few personagea in history, who have been 
more exposed to the calumny of enennes, and the adula- 
tion of friends, than ^ueen £li;ud)eth ; and yet there scarcely 
is any, whos^ reputation has been iBore certainly determined 
by the unanimous consent of posterity. The unusual length 
of her administration, and the strong features of her charac-* 
ter, were able to overcome all prejudices ; and, obliging \ker 
detractors to abate much of then' invectives, and her adnurers 
somewhat of their panegyrics, have, at last, in spite of polit- 
ical factions, and, what is more, ofrelieious animositite, pro- 
duced a uniform judgment with regard to her conduct. 

2 Her vieour, her constancy, her magnanimity, her pen* 
etrution, vigmuioe, and ad-lress, are allowed to tnttr'it the high- 
est praises ^ and appear not to have been surpassed by any per- 
son who over filled a throne ; a conduct less rin^urous, less im- 
perious, mere sincere, more indulgent to her people, would 
^ve bettu r^uisite to form a perfect cbaraoten By the force 

8$ nerEnffUah Rkader. . , JPart I. 

9f faer miadf she controlled all her mere a^e, and stronger 
qualitiflB ; and prevented them from running into excess. 

S Her heroism imB exempted from all temerity ; her fm* 
gality, from ararice; her friendship, from partiality; her 
enterprise, from turbulenej and a vain ambition. She guar- 
ded not herself, with equal care, or equal success, from lesr 
infiraaities ; the riyalship of beauty, the desire of admiralion 
Uie jealousy of loyefand the sallies of anger. 

4 Her singular talents for government, were founded 
liqually on her tempei; and on her capacity. Endo'ff ed with 
u great command over nerself, she soon obtained an tinoo^ 
trolled ascendency OTer the people. Few sorereigns o f Eng-* 
land succeeded to the throne in more difficult circumstances; 
and none ever conducted the government with so imifoniL 
success and felicity. 

5 Though unacquainted with the practice of toleration, 
the true secret for mana^g relirious tactions, she preservea 
her people, by her supenor pructence, from those confusions 
in which theological controversy had involved all the neigh> 
bouring nations; and though ner enemies were the mukl 
powerlul princes of Europe, the most acstive, the most en- 
terprising, the least scrupmous. she was able, by her vigour, 
to make deep impressions on tneir state ; her own greateess 
meanwhile remaining untouched and unimpaired* 

6 The wise ministers and brave men wno flourished dur- 
ing her reign, share the praise of her success ; but, instead 
of lessening tne applause due to her, they make great aditi* 
don to it They owed, all of th^m, their advancement to 
her choice; thex were supported try her constancy; and, 
with all their alnuty, they were never able to acquire an undue 
ascendency over lier. 

7 In her family, in her court, in her kingdom, she remain- 
ed equally mistress. The force of the tender passions was 
great over her, but the force of her mind was still superior : 
and the combat which her victory visibly cost her, serves 
only to display the firmness of her resolution, and the k»fti- 
ness of her ambitious sentiments. 

8 The fame of this princess, though it has surmounted the 
i>r^udices both of faction and of bigotry, yet lies still expo- 
sed to another prejudice, which is more durable, because 
more natural ; and which, according^ to the difierent views in 
which we survey her, is capable eithor of exalting beyond 
measure, or dimimshing the lustre of her character. This 
prejudice is founded on the consideration of her sex. 

9 When we contemplate her as a woman, we are apt to 
be struck with the h^hest admiration of her qualities and 


d. DeteripHve Piec«t. 99 

coeliQRve MfiMsty ; but we are also apt to rtquire mmm 
more aoftneas of dispoaitioii, some mater lenity of temper 
some of those aaiiaole .weaknesBes ny which her lex is die 
tfofpiiahed. But the true method or estimating her meriti 
aa» to lay aside all these considerations, and to consider hcf 
SDiirelj as a rational being, placed in authority, and intrusted 
w>lh m gOTermnent of mamdud. bvmv. 

The sUxvery of vice, 

THE sKaTery produced by vice, appears in the depend- 
ence under which it brings the sinner, to circumstances 
of eiztemal fortune. One of the (avourite clmraeters of lib- 
efty, is the independence it bestows. He who is trul^ a 
freenoao, is above all servile compliances, and abject subjec- 
tion* He is able to rest upon himself ; and while he regards 
his superiors with proper deference, neither debases himself 
by cringing to thenQ^ nor is tempted to purchase thi'ir favour 
by dishonourable means. But the simper has forfeited every 
pnvilejg^e of this nature. 

S His passions and habits, render him an absolute depend 
ant on tli^ world, and the worliVs favour; on the uncertain. 
Koods of fortune, and the fickle humours of men. For it is 
by these he subsists, and among these his happiness is 
nought, according as his passions determine him tu pursue 
ple^ures, riches, or preferments. Having no fund within 
himself whence to draw enjoyment, his only resource is in 
thiotf^ without His hopes and fears all hang upon the 
srom. He partakes in all its vicissitudes ; and is shaken by 
♦very wind of fortune. This is to be, in the strictest sense, 

slave to the world. 

3 Befigiop and virtue, on the other hand, confer on the 
mind principles of noble independence. ''The u)>right nuin 
s satisfied from himself." He despises not the advantages 
of fortune, but he centres not bis happiness in tliem. With 
a moderate share of them, he can \w contented ; and con- 
Wntment, is felicity. Happy in his own integrity, conscious 
af the esteem of good men, renoi^iig firm trust in the provi* 
dence, and the promises of God, he is exempted from ser- 
vile dependence on other things. 

4 He can wrap himself itp in a good conscience, and look 
forward, without terror, to tlie change of the world. Let 
all things fluctuate around him as they pleuise, he belicres 
that, by the Divine ordioatioa, they shall be made to work 

MTPthfir in thiA imimi for his rood ! aiul th<»r».fon%. havinfi 

90 The EngHsk Reader. Part i. 

lie can be easy in eTenr state* One who poflBesses wHlua 
himself such an'establisnment of mind, is tnuy free. 

5 But shall I call that man free, who has nothing that is his 
own» no property assured ; whose very heart h not his own» 
hut rendered the appenoafe of external things, and the 
sport of fortune ? Is that man free, let his outward condition 
be ever so splendid, whom his imperious passions, detain at 
their call, whom they send forth at their pleasure, to drudge 
and toil, and to beg his only enjoyment from the casualtief 
of the world? 

6 Is he free, who must flatter and lie to compass his ends 
who must bear with this man's caprice, and tiiat man^ 
scorn ; must profess friendship where he nates, and respect 
where iie conteums ; who is not at liberty to appear in his 
own colours, nor to speak his own sentiments ; who dares 
not be honesty lest he should be poor ! 

7 Believe it, no chains bind so hard, no fetters are so 
faeary, as those which &sten the corrupted heart to this 
treacherous world ^ no dependence is more contemptihle 
than that under which the voluptuous, the covetous, or the 
ambitious man, lies to the means of pleasure, gain, or pow 
er. Yet this is the boasted liberty, which vice promises, as 
the recompense of setting us free from the salutary restraint! 

of virtue. BLAIR. 

The man ojitdtgniy, 

IT will not take much tune to delineate the character ot 
the man of integrity, as by its nature it is a plain one, and 
easQy understood. He is one who makes it his constant rule 
to follow the road of duty, accordinj^ as the word of God^ and 
the voice of his conscience, point it out to him. He is not 
guided merely by affections, which may sometimes give the 
colour of virtue to a loose and unstable character. 
' 2 The upright man is guided by a fixed principle of mind, 
which determines him to esteem nothing but what is honoura 
ble : and to abhor whatever is base or un wor&y, in moral con- 
duct Hence we find him ewer the same'; at all times, tiic triis- 
ty fri(»id, the affectionate relation, the conscientious man o' 
business, the pious worshipper, the public spirited citizen. 

3 He assumes no borrowed appearance. He seeks no 
mask to cover him ; for he acts no studied part ; but he if 
indeed what he appears to be, full of trutii, candour and hu« 
manity. In all his pursuits, he knows no path but the fair 
and direct one ; and would much rather faU of success, thar 
attain it by reproachful means. 

C^mi. 5. Descriptive Fiecee. 91 

4 He iieT«r shoivs us a smiKfig couiitemince, while he 
medlUtes evil ajrainst us in his heart He never pmiBea an 
amoD^ our frieDas ; and then joms m tradudn^us among; oaii 
enemies. We shall never find one part of his character at 
variance with another. In his manners, he is simple and unaf- 
fected ; in all hia proceedings, open and consistent. — blaik* 



1 BEGIN with distinguishing true gentleness from passive 
tameness* of spirit, and from unlimited compliance with the 
maimers of others. That passive tameness, winch submits. 
iritiiout opposition, to every encroachment of the violent and 
assuming, forms no part of christian duty ; but, on the con- 
trary, is destructive of general happiness and order. That 
unlimited complaisance, which, on every occasion, falls in 
with tne opinions and manners of others, is so far from 
beini; a virtue, that it is itself a vice, and the parent of many 

. £ It overthrows all steadiness of principle ; and produces 
that sinful conformity with the woria, which taints tlie whole 
character. In the present corrupted state of human man- 
ners, always to assent, and to comply, is the very worst max- 
im we can adopt. It is impossible tu support the purity and 
dignity of christian morals, without opplofting the world on 
various occasions, even though we should stand alone. 

3 That centleness therefore which belongs to virtue, is to be 
carefully mstinguished from the mean spirit of cowards, and 
the fawning assent of sycophants. It renounces no just right 
from fear. It gives up no important truth from flattery. It 
iaindeed not only consistent with a firm mind, but it necessarily 
requires a manly spirit, aud a fixed principle, in order to give 
it BMW real value* Upon this solid ground only, tlie polish of 
gentleness can with advantage be superinduced. 

4 It stands opposed, not to the most determined* regard for 
virtue and truth, but to harshness and severty, to pride and 
arrogance, to violence and oppression. It is property, that 
part of the great virtue of charity, which makes us unwilling 
to give pain to any of our brethren. Compassion prompts us 
ta relieve their wants. Forbearance prevents us from retalis- 
i*!^ their injuries. Meekness restrains our angry passions 
otfxtour, our severe judgments. 

6 Gentleness corrects whatever is ofienslve in our man- 
Jers ; and by a constant train of humane attentions, studies 
to alleviate the burden of common misery. Its office, there- 
lore, is eictensive. It is not, like some other virtues, called 

9S Re EnglUk Reader. Fmr§l. 

forth enij oo peeidiir emenpend^; but it b eontknnljrin 
action, wnen we are engaged in intercourse with men. it 
ought to form our address, to regulate our speech, and to ^* 
ftise Itself over our whole behaviour, m 

6 We must not, however, confound this gentle '^wisdoin. 
which is from abov«," with that artiActal courtesy, tiUit studied 
smoothness of manners, which is learned in the school of th« • 
world. Such accomplishments, the most frivolous and empty 
may. possess. Too often they are employed by the artful^ a& 
a snare ; too often affected by the hard and unfeeling, as a 
cover to the baseness of tfaeirminds. We cannot^ at thesamo 
time, avoid observing the homage, which, even in such insfesn* 
ces,'the world is constrained to pay to virtue. 

7 In order to render society agreeable, it is found necessary 
to assume somewhat, that may at least carry its appearance 
Virtue is the universal charm. Even its shadow is courted, 
when the substance is wanting. The imitation of its form 
has been reduced into an art ; and in the commerce of fife, 
the first study of all who would either gain the esteem, or 
wip the hearts of others, is to learn the speech, and to adoot 
the manners, of candour, gentleness, and humanity. 

8 But that gentleness which is the characteristic of a good 
man, has, like every other virtuei^ its seat in the heart ; and, 
let me add, nothing except what flows from the heart, can 
render even external manners truly pleasing. For no assum 
ed behaviour can at all times hide the real duuracter. In that 
unaffected civility which springs from a gentle mind^ there is 
a charm infinitely more poweitul, than in all the studied man* 
ners of the most finished courtier. 

9 True gentleness is founded on a sense of what we owo 
to HIM who made us, and to the common nature of which we 
all share. It arises from reflections on our own faihim and 
w^nta ; and from just views of the condition, and thecuily a^ 
man. It is native feeling, heightened and inaproved by prin 
ciple. It is tiie heart which easily relents ; which feels for 
every thing that is human ; and is backward and slow to inflict 
the least wound. 

10 It is affable in its dress, and mild in its demeanour ; eve 
reaoy to oblige, and willing to be obliged by others ; breath 
ing habitual kindness towards friends, courtesy co stranger^ 
long-suffering to enemies. It exercises authority with mode- 
ration ; administers reproof with tenderness ; confers fovours 
with ease and modesty. It is unassuminc in opinion, and 
temperate in ae^l. It contends not eagerly about trifles ; slow 
to contradict, and still slower to blazae ; out prompt to JLpa|r 

' restore poiMb 

C%iip. 6* Pathetic Piecet. 99 

11 Itneitfaer!iitennedd)e8nmiece8Mri1y witfitfae affiiirsyOor 
pries inquisitiyeljiiito the secreta of otbere. It delichU above 
an thin^ to alleTiate distress ; und, if it cannot git up the 
falling tear, to sooth at least the ^eving heart YVhere it 
has net the power of beine useful, it is never burdensome. It 
seeks to ]Mease, rather tnan to shine and daaole ; and con- 
ceals wkh care that superiority, either of talents or of rank, 
which is oppressive to those who are beneath it. 

12 In a word, it is that spirit, and that tenor of manners, 
which the gospel of Christ enjoins, when it commands us. 
" to bear one another's burdens ; to rejoice wltii those who 
rejoice, and to weep with those who weep ; to please every 
one his nd^hbour for his good ; to be kind and tender-heaK- 
ed ; to be pitiful and courteous ; to support the weak, and to 
be patient towards all men.*' blaik. 




Tried and exeeytUm ff the Earl o/* Stratpokd, who fkO m 

murifiot to iht vioUnu of Uu Umes^ in ^ rtign of 

Chaelbs the FinL 

THE earl of Strafbrd defended himself asainst the accusa* 
tiotis of the house of Commons, with all the presence of 
mind, judgment, and sa^city, that could be expected firom 
mnooence and ability, llis children were placed beside him 
as he was thus defending his life, and the cause of his royal 
master. After be had^ in a long and eloquent speech, de- 
livered without premeditation, confuted all the accusations of 
his enemies, he thus drew to a conchision, 

S ^'But, my lords, I have troubled you too long: longer 
than I should have done, but for the sake of these dear 
pledges, which a saint in heaven has left me.** — ^Upon this 
he paused ; dropped a tear; looked upon his children, and pro- 
ceeded. — ^ What 1 forfeit for myself, is a trifle : that my indis- 
cretions should reach my posterity, wounds me to the heart. 

9 Pardon mv infirmity. — Something I should have added, 
but I am not able ; and therefore I let it pass. And now, my 
lords, for myself. I have long been taught, that the alftic- 
tions of this ufe, are overpaid by that eternal weight of glory, 
which awaits the innocent And so, my lords, even so, with 
the utmost tranqiiiHity, I submit myself to your judj^ment, 
whether that judgment be life or death : not my will, but 
tiiine, O God, be none !" 

4 His eloq\pence and innocenoe, induced tliw^e judges te 

94 Ths EngfUh Rendfir. ^cfrt 1. 

pity, who were the most jealous to eondeom him- The 
king hinuielf went, to the him^e of lords, and spoke for some 
tune m his defences but tlie spirit of vengeance, which had " 
been chained for eleven years, was now roused ; and nothbg 
hut his blood could give the people satisfaction. He was 
condemned by both houses of parliament; and nothing re- 
mained but for the king'to give his consent to the bill of at- 

5 But in the present commotions, thcj consent of the king 
would very easily be dispensed with ; and imminent danger 
might attend his refusaL Charles, however, who loved 
Strafford tenderly^ hesitated, and seemed reluctant; trying 
every expedient to put off so dreadful an' office, as that ol 
signing tee warrant for his execution. While he continued 
in this axitation of mind, and state of suspense, his .doubts 
were at last silenced by an act of great magnanimity in the 
condemned lord. 

6 He received a letter from that unfortunate nobleman, 
desiring that his life might be made a sacrifice to obtain re- 
conciliation between the kine and his people : adding, that 
he was fMrefored to die ; and that to a willing mmd, mere 
eould be no injury. This instapce of noble fjenerositf, was 
but ill repaid ny nis master, who complied with his request 
He consented to sign the (ktal hiU by commission ; and straf* 
iotA was beheaded on Tower-hili ; hehavuig with all that 
4)omposed dignity of resolution, which was expected from his 
character. > ooldsmith. 


An eminent instance qf true fortitude, 

ALL who have been distinguished as servants of God, or 
benefactors of men ; all i/nio, in perilous situations, have 
acted their part with such honour as to render their names 
illustrious through succeeding ages, have been eminent for for- 
titude of mind. Of this we have one conspicuous exaniple 
in the apostle Paul, whom it will be instructive for us to view 
in a remarkable occurrence of his life. 

£ Alter having long acted as the apostle of the Gentiles, 
his mission called him to go to Jerusalem, where he knew 
that he was ^to encounter the utmost violence of his ene- 
mies. Just before he set sail, he called together the elders 
of his favourite church at £phesus, and, in a pathetic speech, * 
which does great honour to Ills character. g»ve them nis last « 
(arewell. Deeply affected by their knowledge' of the certain 
clangers to which he was exposing himself, m the assembly 
were filled with distress, and noelted into teai% 

C/U^.6' Pathetic Pteeti. 95 

8 The crreiunstances were such, as might hare conveyed 
dejection even into a ivsolute mind ; and would have totally 
overwhelmed tlie f(H;bie. ^ They all wept sore, and fell on 
I'aul's neck, and kissed him; sorrowing most of all for the 
words which he spoke, that they should see his face no 
more.** — ^What were tlien the sentiments, what was the lan- 
guage, of this great and good man ? Hear the words which 
spoke his firm and undaunted mind. 

4 ** Behoki, I go bound in the sptrity to Jerusalem, not 
knowing the things that shall befall me there ; save that the 
Holy Spirit witni-sseth in every city, saying, that bonds 
and afflictions abide me. But none of these things move 
me ; neither count I my life dear to myself, so that I might 
finish my course with joy, and the ministiy which I have 
received of the Lord Jesus, to testify the gospel of the grace 
of God-" 

5 There was uttered the voice, there breathed the spirit, 
of a brave and virtuous man. Such a man knows not what 
it is to shrink from danger, when conscience points out his 
path. In that path he is determined to walk, let the conse- 
quences be what Uwy may. This was the magnanimous 
behaviour of that great apoj^tle, when he had persecution and 
distress full in view. ^ 

6 Attend now to the sentiments of the same excellent ms" 
when the time of his last sufi*ering approached ; and remark 
the majesty, and the ease, with which he looked on death. 
•* I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my depart- 
ure is at hand. 1 have fouj^ht tiie ^ood fisht I have finish- 
ed my course. I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is 
laid up for me a crown of righteousness." 

7 How many years of life does such a dying moment over- 
balance ! Who would not choose, in this manner, to go off 
the stage, with such a song of triumph m his mouth, ratiier 
than prolong his existence through a wretclied old age, stain- 
ed wfth sin and shame ? bi«aik. 


The good man*s comfort in agHdion, 

THE religion of Christ not only arms us with fortitude 
against the approach of evil ; but, supposing evils to 
fall upon us with their heaviest pressure, it hghtens the load 
!»y many consolations to which others are strangers. While 
bad men trace, in the calamities with which they are visited, 
the hand of an ofiendcd soverdgn, Christians are taught to 
riew them as the weU-btended chastisements of a merciful 

9() The Engihh Reader. Port 1. 

S They hc^r fimidst them, that still voice which a ^ood 
conscience bnnss to their ear : '^ Fear not, for I am with thee: 
be not dismayed, for 1 am tiiy God." They apply to them- 
selves the comfortable promises with which the gospel 
abounds. They discover in these the happy issue decreed 
to their troubles ; and wait with patience till r rovidence shall 
have accomplished its great and good designs. 

3 Ih tlie mean time. Devotion opens to tliem its blessed 
and holy sanctuary : that sanctuary in which the wounded 
heart is healed, and the weary mmd is at rest ; where the 
cares of the world are forgotten ; where its tmnults are hush- 
ed, and its miseries disappear ; where greater objects open 
to our view than any which the world presents ; where a 
more serene sky shines, and a sweeter and calmer light 
beams on the afflicted heart 

4 [n those moments of devotion, a pious man, pouring 
out his wants and sorrows to an Almignty Supporter, feels 
that he Is not left solitary and forsaken in a Vale of wo* 
God is with him ; Christ and the Holy Spirit are with him ; 
and though he should be bereaved of every friend on earthy 

\ he can look up in heaven to a Friend that will never desert 

*- lum BLAI&. 


The close of life, 

WHEN we contemplate the close of life ; the termination 
of man's designs and hopes ; the silence that now 
reigns among those who, a little while ago, were so busy, or 
so gay; who can avoid being touched with sensations at 
once awful and tender ? What heart but then warms with 
the glow oChumanity ? In whose eye does not the tear ^th- 
er, on revolving the fate of passing and short-lived man? 

2* Behold the poor man who lays down at last the burden 
of his wearisome life. No more shall he groan under the 
load of poverty and toil. No more shall he. hear the insolent 
^ calls of the master, from whom he received his scanty wages. 
*J^o more shall he be raised from needful slumber on his bed 
of straw, nor be hurried away from his honaely meal, to 
undergo the repeated labours of the day. 

5 Wliile his numble grave is preparing, and a few poor and 
decayed neighbours are carrj'ing iiim uiither, it is good for 
us to think, that this man too was our brother : that for him 
the aged and destitute wife, and tlic needy children, now 
weepl that, neglected as he was by the world, he possessed, 
perhaps, both a sound understanding, and a worthy heart: 
and is now carried by angels to rest in Abraham's^ bosom. 

Chap. 6. PMeik Pieces. VT 

4 At DO ^reat distance trom biro, the {pnve is opened to 
Teoeive the nch and proud man. For, as it is said with em- 
phasis in the parable, ** the rich man also died, and was bu- 
ried." He also died. iUis riches prevented not his sharing 
the same fate with the poor man ; perhaps, through luxury 
they acceleratiid his doom. Then, indeea, ^ the mourners 
go about the streets f and, while, in dl the pomp, and mag- 
nificence of wo, his funeral is preparing, his heirs, impatient 
to examine his will, are looking on one another withjeal- 
ouB eyes, and already beginning to dispute about the Ofvis- 
ioa oi his substance. 

& One day, we see carried along, the coffin of the smiling 
infant : the flower just nipped as it began to blossom in the 
parent's Tiew : andfthe next day, we behold the youne man, 
or young woman, of blootiing form and promising nopes, 
laid in an untimely grave. ' While the funeral is attendea by 
an omerous unconcerned company, who are discoursing with 
one another about the news or the day, or the ordinary affairs 
of life, let pur thoughts rather follow* to the house ot mourn- 
ing, and represent to themselves what is passing there. 

6 Theie we should see a disconsolate family, sitting in si- 
lent grief, thinking of the sad breach that is made in their fit* 
tie society ; and with tears in their eyes, looking to the cham- 
ber that IS now left vacant, and to every memorial that pre- 
sents itself of their departed friend. By such attention to 
the woes of others, the selfish hardness of our hearts will be 
gradually softened, and melted down into humanity. 

7 An(»ther day, we follow to the grave, one wno, in old 
age, and after a long career of tife, has in full maturity sunk 
at last into rest. As we are eoing along to the mansion of the 
dead, it is natural for us to think, and to discourse, of all the 
cJianges which such a person has seen during the course of 
his life. He has passed, it is likely, through varieties of for- 
tune. He has experienced prosperity, and adversity. He 
has seen families and kindred nse and fail. He has aeeo 
peace and war succeeding in their turns ; the face of his coun- 
try undergoing many alterations ; and the very city in which 
he dwelt, rising, in a manner, new around him. 

8 After nil he has beheld, his eyes are now closed for 
ever, lie was becoming a .stranger in the midst of a new 
sucoesf'ion o£. men. A race who knew him not, had arisen 
to iiU the earth. — ^Thiis passes the worid away. Throughout 
ail rauks and conditions, ^ one generatioD passeth, zm an- 
other generation cometh ;" and this great inn is by turns evae* 
iiatt d and replenished, by troops of succeeding pilgrims. 

d O vain and inconstant world ! O fleetit^ and trantieiil . 

98 The EnglUh Reader. Pari 1. 

Hfe ! When iHil ttm sons of men lenrn to tliirik of thee ai 
they euicht ? Whai wiH they ]earn humanity from the afflic- 
tions of their bretisren; or moderation and wisdom, from 
the sense of their own fiigitiTe sti^e H bi^air. 


tlxaUed society ^ and ih/B renewal of virtuous oonneorum^y two 

sources offuiurefdicity, 

BESIDES the felicity which springs from perfect Iotci 
there are two circwnstances wnich particolarhr enhance 
the blessedness of that, ^ multitude who stand before the 
throne :" these are, access to the most exalted society, and 
renewal of the most tender connexions. The former is p<Hnt- 
ed out in the Scripture, by "joining the innumerable compa- 
ny of angels, ana the general assembly and church of the 
^rst-born ; by sitting down w^ Abraham, and Isaac, and 
Jacob, in the kingdom of heaven ;" a promise which opens 
the suotimest prospects to the human mind. 

2 It allows good men to entertain the hope, that, sepuini- 
ted from all the dre^ of the human mass, from that mixed 
■and polluted crowd m the midst of which they now dwell, 
they shall be permitted to mingle with prophets, patriarchs, 
and apostles, with all those great and illustrious spirits, who 
iiave shone in former ages as the servants of'God, or the ben- 
-'.factors of men ; whose deeds we are accustomed to cele- 
brate ; whose steps we now fdlow at a distance ; and whose 
names yre pronounce with veneration. 

8 Unitea tp this high assembly, the blessed, at the same 
time, renew those ancient connexions, with virtuous friends, 
whicn had been dissolved by death. The prospect of this 
awakens in the' heart, the mo^t pleasing and tender sentiment 
that perhaps can fill it, in this mortal state. For of^l the 
sorrows wluch w^ are here doomed to endure^ none is so 
Utter as that occasioned by the fatal stroke which separates 
iiS| in appearance for ever, from those to wh6m either nature 
or friendship had intimately joined our hearts. 

4 Memory, from lime to time, renews the anguish ; opens' 
the wounds which seemed once to have been closed ; and, by 
recalling jo^ t^at are past and gone, touches every spring of 
painful sensibility. In these agonizing moments, now reliev- 
ing the thought, that the reparation is only temporary, not 
eternal, that ih^m is a time to come of re-union with those 
with whom our h^ipiast days were s^nt ; whose joys and 
-aorrows once were qui»; whesepjety and virtue cheered and 
eneouraged us ; and lErom whom, afterfWB'VhaU^ have landed 
•n the p^iceful shore where they dwel]» no revokition ot 

Chap. 6. FathHie FUw. 99< 

miture shal] erer be able to partus more ! Such 18 the tocietjr 
of the blessed above. Of such are the multitude compoMO, 
who ^' stand before the throne." blaie. 

Tht demtncy and amiabU character of (he patriarch Joseph. 

NO human character exhibited in the records of Scrip- 
ture, is more remarkable and instructive than that of 
the patriarch Joseph. He is one whom we heliold tried in 
all the vicissitudes of fortune ; from ti>e condition of a slave, 

proved by strong temptations, which he honourably resisted. 

£ When thrown into prison by the artifices of a false wo- 
man, his integrity and prud^ice soon rendered him conspicu- 
ous, even in that dark mansion. When called into the pre- 
sence of Pharaoh, the wise and extensive plan which he form* 
ed for saving the kingdom from the miseries of impendiug 
Ihmine, justly raised bim to a high station, wherein his abili- 
ties were eminently disnlayed in the public service. 

9 But in his wnoie history, there is no circumstance so 
striking and interesting, as his behaviour to his brethren who 
had son hiai into slavery. The moment in which he made 
himself known to them, was the most critical one of his life, 
and the most decisive of his character. It is such as rarely 
occurs in the course of human events ; and is calculattul to 
draw the highest attention of all who are endowed with any 
degree of sensibility of heart 

4 From the whole tenour of the narration, it appears, tliat 
though Joseph, upon the arrival of his brethren in E^ypt, 
mad^imseli strange to them, yet, from the beginning, he in- 
tendecfto discover himself; and studied so to conduct the dis- 
covery, as might render the surpris*^ of joy complete. For 
this end, by anected severity, he took measures for bringing 
down into Egypt all his father's children. 

5 They were now arrived there ; and Benjamin among 
the rust, who was liis younger brother by the same mother, 
and was p«urticularly beloved by Joseph. Uim he tlireaten- 
ed to detain ; and seemed willing to allow the rest to depart 
This incident renewed their dbtress. They all knew their 
father's extreme anxiety about the safety of Benjamin, and 
with what dilBculty he had yielded to his undertaking this 

6 Should he be preveoted from returning, they dreaded 
that grief woukl overpower the old man's spirits, and prow 


100 The Engikh Reader. t^art I . 

fata] to hift life. Judah, therefore, who had ^rticubrly 
vKPKpd the neceasity of Benjamin's accom)>ainring his brothers, 
ana had solemnly pledged himself to their father for his safe 
return, craved, upon this occasion, an audience of the gover- 
nor ; and gave liim a full account of the circumstances of 
, Jacob's family. 

7 Nothins can be more interesting and pathetic than this 
discourse of Judah. Little knowing to whftm he spoke, he 
paints in all the colours of simple and natural eloquehce, the 
distressed situation of the aged patriarch, hastening to the 
dose of life ; long afflicted for thelos« of a favourite son, whom 
he supposed to nave been toni in pieces by a beast of prey ; 
labouring now under anxious concern about his youngest 
son, the child of his old a^e, who alone w^is left ahve oihn 
mother, and whom nothing but the calamities of severe fam- 
ine could have moved a tender father to send from home, and 
expose to the dangers of a foreign land. 

6 ** If we bring him not back with us, we shall bring down 
the gray hairs ofthy servant, our father, with sorrow to the 
grave. I pray thee therefore let thy servant abide, instead of 
the young man, a bondman to our ford. For how shall I go 
up to my father, and Benjamin not with me ? lest I see the 
evil that shall come on my father." 

9 Vvpn this relation, Joseph could no longer restrain him- 
self. 4*lie tender ideas of his father, and his father's house, 
of his ancient home, his country, and his kindred, of the dis- 
tress of his family, and his own exaltation, all rushed too 
strongly upon his miiid to bear any farther concealment 
*' He cried. Cause every man to go out from me ; and he wept 

10 The tears which he shed were not the tears of grief. 
They were the burst of affection. They were the effusions 
of a heart overflowing with all the tender sensibilities of na- 
ture. Formerly he had been moved in the samrt manner, 
whien he first saw his brethren before him. "His bowels 
yearned upon them ; he sought for a place where to weep. 
He went into his chamber; and then washed his face and 
returned to them." 

11 At that period, his generous plans were not completed. 
But now, when there was no farther occasion for constraining 
himself, he ^ave free vent to the strong emotions of his heart 
The first minister to the king of Egypt was not ashamed to 
•how. that he felt as a man and a brotlier. ^ He wept aloud ; 
and the Egyptians, and the house of Pharaoh heard him?' 

IS The first words which his swelling heart allowed him 
to pronounce, are the most suitable to such an affecting Mtua- 

CAttpb S. PMfeHc Ptete •• 101 

tkm that were erer uttered^-^I bib JoM|>h { doth tot latlH* 
«r yet tive ?*— -What could he, what ouffht he. in that mibai-^ 
mooed moment, to hare laid mMe? Tim ie thatoice Criftia- 
ture herself 9 tpeMa^ her own langqage ; and H penetratea 
the heart: no pomp of ezpreMMMi ; no parade of kimbien | 
hut rtrow affection hastening to utter what h ttronclj ML 

IS '^lus hrethren could not answer him $ for wey were 
troubled at his presence." Their silenoe is as ajq^ressive of 
those emotions of repentance and shame, which, on thm anuH 
ling discoreiy. filled their breasts, and stoppea their utter- 
ance, as the tew words which Joseph speaks, are exprese-t 
ire of the generous agitationa which struggled for rent i^thin 

14 No painter could seise a more striking moment for dii#> 
|riaying the characteristical features of the human heart, than 
what is here presented. Never was there a situation of more 
tender and ruluouspoy, on the one hand ; nor, on the otlwr 
of more orerwhelming confusion and conscious guilt In the 
siiiMe narration of the sacred Ustorian, it is set before ua 
wim greater energy and higher effect, than if it bad been 
wroiupit up with au the cokiuring of the most admired mod** 
em eioqnenee* A bIiAIr. 



TheJbOowing cuctwad of an afftding^ moun\fut exUj is rMm 
}y Dr. Young, who vxuprueni S the muanchdy scene. 

THE sad evening before th^ death of the noble jrouth* 
whose last hours suggested the most solemn and awful 
reflections, I was with bim. No one Was present, but his 
physician, and an intimate whom he loved, and whom he 
nad niinc^i. At m v coming in, be said, '^ You and the ^y^ 
sician, are come too Bite. I nave neither life nor hope* lou 
both aim at muraeles. You would raise the dead! " 

2 Heaven, I said, was merciful— ^^ Or," exclaimed he, — ^ 1 
could not have been thus guil^. What has it not done to 
bless and to save raei — I have been too strong for Omnipo- 
tence! I have plucked down ruin.^— I Siud, the blesiied 
Redeemer, — ^ Hold ! hold ! ^rou wound uie 1 — ^That is the 
rock on which I s)|Jit : — ^1 denied his name !^* 

3 Refusing to hear any thing from nie, or take any thing 
from the physician, he lay silent, as far as sudden darts of pain 
would permit, till the clock struck : Tlien with v«iheraenoeha 
exdaboMlt **QHl time! time! it is 4t thou sbouldst thus 
strike thy nuideler to the heart ! — ^Uow art chou fled for 
«var^A aaMSth! Oh. for a sinde weekl t ask iMt ^ 

idle frr die nKh I lunrtt to 

cc — i d itdoteaMMtchi tfaatheBveo 

the ifvne.— Tis kMl i lis 

tiieacwC9llieTt«»rikril!'' SooDaller, 

^ itcMitlBeTerpniVBd. 1 

L JsDothcevcaoDiBjraaeeiivady? 
llB aevcmtstrokes buteecond 

» O imi i ii% that bafriepd wig MDcfa touched at this, even 
te tean— (who csouid forhcar? I could not) — with a most 
■ftrfinnifr look, he said, **Keep tfaoae tears for th^Ul I 
hirr aodooe thee. — ^Dost thou wtep for me ? Tliat is cnieU 

C Berehn firiend, too miefa affected, would have left him.— 
'I^ ita J — thou adU aaajit hope; tharefore hear me. How 

BBadlThav« I talked! How madly hut thou listened aod be- 
fievca! bstlookoDBjiiceaeBtalate^^isa fuUamrarertoUieey 

This body Bafi weakness aod pain; butmy 

M if ftoDK op by tonDcnt to poaler strength and spirit^ 
» lull powwrn ta ffr—nn ; fidl wbu^^Oj^ suffer. And that 
which oms tiimm ilt t within thejaws orflkmortality , is, doubt- 
Sr& immortal — ^And, as fi>r a I>eity, mwning less than an Al- 
mp^i^ could infliet what I fed." 

7 I was about to congratulate this paasiTe, involuntary coo- 
T, on his assertins the two prime articles of his creed, ex- 

toried by the rack ornatnre. when he thus, very passionately 

» ! let me 

I have notion^ to 
! my sottl^as my body,wi9 
fragments of broken tfiought. 

S Rcmone for tiiepaa^ throws my thought on the future. 
Worse dread of the fufiarey strikes it liack on the past. I tarn, 
andtom. and ind no laj. Didst thou lliel half the ntountain 
tiiat is on me, thou wunldst stnuegle with the martyr for his 
stake ; and bless Heaven fbrthe flames ! — that b not an eve^ 
lastinr flame; that is not an unquenchable fire.** 

f How vrere we atmck! yet soon after, still more. With 
what an eye of distracdon, what a face of despair, he cried 
oat ! *^Mj princmles have poisoned my friend ; my eztniTa- 
ganoehasbt|;garedaiy boy! myunkmdness has murdered 
my wife!— iSd is there another heli? Oh! thou blasphemed, 
yet mdolmt LORD GOD I HeU itself is a refuge, if it hide 
me ftom ny flown ! " 

10 Soon after, his undemufii^^ failed. His terriiled Ima- 
gpatioQ mtaredliOKrors notlobe rspoatedyorever forgotttn. 
Xiid en tin am {which. I hoDs. hmaeraifew Kkn him) P--^ 

thm SBjTy young, nolile, ingenious, aceompUriiiMi, and meat 
nrretched Altamont, expiMMl ! 

11 Iftfais is a man of pleasure, what is a nwn of pain? How 
ouick, kiow total, is tlie transit uf such persons ' In what a 
aknial doom thc^ set lor ever ! How short, alas ! the day of 
their rejoieing ! — ^For amomcnt, they glitter— they dazzle ! In 
a moment, wiiere are they ? Oblivion covers their memories. 
Ahi would it did! Infamj snatches them from obhvion. In 
the long livinc annals of infamy, their triumphs are recorded* 

12 Tiiy suSerings, poor Altamont ! still bleed in the bosom 
of the heart-stricken friend — for Altamont had a friend. He 
might have had many. His transient morning might have 
been the dawn of an mimortal day. His name micnt have 
been gloriously enrolled in the records of eternity. His mem* 
ary might have left a sweet fragrance behind it, grateful to the 
surviving friend, salutary to the succeeding g<'neration. 

IS With what capacity was he endowed ! with wfiat advan- 
tages, for being ei^atly good ! But with the tilents of an 
ao^l, a man may be a fool. If he judges amiss in the supreme 
pomt, judging ^right in all else, but a^gnivates his folly ; as it 
shows him wrong, though blessed with the best capacity of 
being right nm. tocmo. 



7%€ irieet andfiXH/n of mm should exdU compassion rMer 

Guin ridicule,' 

DtmoerUus. I Und it impossible to reconcile myself to a 
melancholy philosophy. 

Hefaetittts. And I am equally unable to approve ofthat vain 
philosophjv^hich teaches men to drspise and ridicul** une 
another. To a wise and feeling mind, the world appears in 
a wretched and painful light. < 

Dem. Thou art too much affected with the state of thiiigs^ 
and this is a source of misery to thee. 

Her. And I think thou art too little moved by it. Tliy 
mirth and ridicule, bespeak the buffoon, rather than the phi- 
losopher. Does it not excite thy compassion, to see manKind 
so frail, so blind, so far departed from the niles of virtue? 

Dem. I am excited to laughter, when I see so much im« 
pertinence and folly. 

* Dtaocritps and Hementdf w«re mc ai nem phikMophan, tb* format 
lMlflM^tH|iltiMbCiarw«|il, 9111a ««on smI follie* cf tMtiikliid. 

104 The EnflUh Reader. P4irt I. 

Hkr» And yet, alter all, they, who ntt the objects of thy 
ridicVile, include, not only mankind in ceaeral, out the per^ 
sons with whom thou kvest, thy frieoos, thy family, nay 
even thyself. 

Dem. I care very little for all the silly persons I meet 
witii ; and think I am justifiable in diverting my«elfwtththei^ 

Her, If they are weak and foolish. It marks neither wis^ 
dom nor humanity, to insult rather than pity them. ButtS 
It certain, that thou art not as extravagant as they are ? 

Dem. I presume that I am not; since, in every point, my 
sentiments are the very reverse of theirs. 

Her. There are follies of dijferent kinds. By constantly 
amusing thyself with the errors and mbconduct of others, 
tJiou mayst render thyself equally ridiculouJs and culpable. 

Htm. Thou art at liberty to indulge such sentiments ; and 
to weep over me too^ if thou hast any tears to spare. For 
my part^ I cannot refrain from pleasing myself with the levi- 
ties and lU conduct of the worla about me. Are not all men 
foolish, ur irregular in their lives ? 

Her. Alas ! there is but too much reason to beiieve they 
are su : and on this ground, I pity and deplore their condi- 
tion. We agree in this point, that men do not conduct 
themselves according to reasonable and just principles : but 
1, who do not suiFer myself to act as they do, must yet regard 
the dictates of my understanding and feelings, which compel 
me to love them ; and that love alls mo with compassion for 
their mistakes and irregularities. Canst thou condemn me 
for pitying my own species, my brethren, persons born in the 
same condition of lite, and destined to the same hopes and 
privileges ? If thou shouldst enter a hospital, where sick and 
wounded persons reside, would their wounds and distresses 
ejccite tliy mirth ? And yet, the evils of the body, bear no 
comparison with those of the mind. Thou woulast certiun- 
ly blush at thy barbarity, if thou hadst been so unfeeling as 
to laugh at or despise a poor miserable being, who had lost 
on*» ofiiis legs : ana yet triou art so destitute of humanity, as 
to ridicule those, who appear to be deprived of the noble 
p<iwers of the understanding, by the little regard which they 
pay to its dictates. 

Dem. He who has lost a leg, is to be pitied, because the 
loss is not to be imputed te himself : but ne wno rejects the 
dictates of reason and conscience, voluntarily deprives him- 
self of their aid. The loss originates in his own tbllv. 

£br. Ah ! so much the more is he to be nitiedi Afurious 

Chap, f . DMogueL 103 

nmniac, who ^otild pluck out hii own ejes, would deaenre 
more compassioii than an ordinaiT bHnd man. 

/)e9i. Cfome, let us accommodate the business. There is 
sometiiing to be said on each side of the question. There is 
every where reason for laughing, and reason for weeping. 
The world is ridiculous, and I laugh at it : it is dej/lorabley 
and (hott lamfintest over it £>irery person views it in his own 
way, and aocording to his own temper. One point is un- 
queraonaUe, that mankind are preposterous : to think right, 
and to act well, we must think and act differentiy from them. 
To aubmit to the authority, and follow the example of the 
greater part of men, would render us foolish and miserable. 

Her. All this is, indeed, true ; hut then, thou hast no real 
knre or feeling for thy species. The calamities of mankind 
excite thy mirth: and this proves that thou hast no regard 
for meoi nor any true req>ect for the virtues which they ha ve 
unhappily abandoned. Fendany ArMishop of Camhroy, 



GeMUine viriut commands rettped^ even from the bad, 

y.. .,,. A MAZING ! What do I see ? It is Pythias just 
XHonj^tOL^^^^^^^j^ij^j^^Py^jjj^ I did not think 

it posdble. He is come to die, and to redeem his friend I 

PfftkiaM, Tes, it is Pythias. I left the place of my con- 
finementf with no other views, than to pay to heaven the 
vows I had made ; to settle my family concerns according 
to the rules of justice ; and to bid adieu to my children, that 
I might die tranquil and satisfied. 

Dio. But why dost tliou return ? Hast thou no fear of death!' 
Is it not the character of a madman, to seek it thus voluntarily r 

Py. I return to suffer, though I have not deserved death. 
£v«ry principle of honour and goodness, forbids me to allow 
my mend to die for me. 

Dio, Dost thou, then, love him better than thyself ? 

Py. No; I love nim as myself. But I am nersuaded that 
I ou^ht to suffer death, ratner than my friena ; since it was 
Pythias whom thou hadat decreed to die. It were not just 
that Damon shoidd suffer, to deliver me' from the death which 
waa designed, not for him, but for me onljr. 

Dia. Bat thou supposest, that it is as unjust to inflict death 
upon thee, as upon toy friend. 

Py, Very true ; we are both perfectiy innocent ; and it m 
equally uniust to make either ot us suffer. 

iMo. Why dost thou then assert, that ft were injustice fo 
put him to death, instead of thee ? 

tOb The EngUih Reader. PaHU 

PtL It is ttojuat, in the samedegree, to inffict death, eitber 
on Damon or on mvseif ; but Fytmas wa« hichlv culpdble 
to 1^ Damon suffer that death, which tbe tyrant naa prepatred 
for Pythias only- 

Dio. Dost thou then retiimhither,on the day appointed, with 
no other view, than to save the life of a friend, by losmg th^ own? 

Py. I return, in regard to thae,to suffer an act of injustice 
which it b common for tyrants to inflict ; and, with respect 
to Damon, to perform my duty, by rescuing him from the 
danger he incurred by his generosity to me. 

Sw. And now, Damon, let me address myself to thee. 
Didst thou not really fear, that Pythias would nerer return; 
ind that thou woulctot be put to death on his account ? 

Da. I was but too well assured, that Pythias would pime* 
lually return ; and that he would be more solidtous to keep 
his promise, than to preserve his life. Would to heavcQ, 
that his relations and friends had forcibly detained him I He 
would then have lived for tiie comfort and benefit of good 
men ; and I should have the satisfaction of dying for him ! 

2>to, What! Does life displease thee? 

Do. Yes ; it displeases me when I see and fed tlte power 
of a tyrant. 

Dio, It is well! Hiou shalt see him nomore. I wiH order 
"iiee to be put to death imme^tety. 

Py. Pardon the feelings of a man who sympathises with 
his ayinff friend. But remember it was Pythias who was 
devoted by thee to destruction. I come to submit to it, that 
I may redeem my fHend. Do not refuse me this consolation 
in my last hour. 

Iho, I cannot endure men, who despise death, and set my 
power at defiance. 

Da, Thoii canst n»t, then, endure virtue. 

iHo. No : I cannot endure that proud, disdainful vurtue, 
which contemns life; which dreads no punishment; ana 
which insensible to the charms of riches ana pleasure. 

Da. Thou seest, however, that it is a virtue, which is not 
insensible to the dictates of honour, justice, and friendship. 

Dio. Guai*ds, take Pythias to execution. We shall see 
whether Damon will continue to despise my authority. 

Da. Pythias^ by retummg to submit himself to thy plea- 
sure, has merited his life, and deserved thy favour ; but I 
have excited thy indignatioq, by resigning myself to thy pow- 
er, in order to save turn ; be satisfied, then, with this sacri- 
fice, and put me to death.. ' 

Py. Hold, Dionysius! remember, it was Pythiaft alone 
who offended thee ; Damon could not— '— 

Chap. 7* Diahguei. 107 

Dio, AJiis! what do I see and hear! when am 1! How 
miserable ; and how worthy to be so ! I have hitherto known 
nothing of true virtue. I nave spent my life in darkness and 
error. AQ injr power and honours, are insufficient to pro- 
duce love. 1 cannot boast of having acquired a single friend, 
in the course of a reign of thirty years. And yet these two 
persons, in a private condition, love one another tenderly^ 
unreservedly confide in each otlier, are mutuaUy happy, ana 
ready to die for each other's preser^'ation. 

Py. How couldst tiiou, wno hast never loved any person, 
expect to have friends? If thou hadst loved and respected 
men, thou wouldst have secured their loveand respect Thou 
hast feared mankind : and they fear thee : tlier detest thee 

/Ko. Damon, Pythias, condescend to admit me as a 
third friend, in a connexion so perfecL. I give you your 
lives ; and I will load you >vith riches. 

Da, We have no desire to be enriched by thee ; and, in 
regard to thy friendship, we cannot accept or enjoy it. till 
thou become good and just Without these quahties, tnou 
raust be connected with none but trembling slaves, and base 
flatterers. To be loved and esteemed by men of free ap^ 
{generous minds, thou must be virtuous, affectionate, di^n 
terestcd, beneficent ; and know how to live in a sort of equali* 
ty with those who share and deserve thy friendship. 



ChrufHanity defended agaijut the cavRa of setpliciam, 

Batde ^i^^^» ^® ^^^^ yfere philosophers ; but my philos* 
^ ' JL ophy was the deepest! Youaoj:matized; I doubted* 
hocke. Do you make doubting a prool of depth in philoso- 
phy ? It may he a good beginning of it ; but it is a bad end. 
Bayle, No : — the more profound our researches are into the 
nature of things, the more uncertainty we shall find ; and 
^he most subtle minds, see objections and difficulties in every 
system, which are overlooked or undiscoverable by ordi- 
nary understandings. 

Ju>cke, It would oe better then to be no philosopher, and to 
continue in the vu){^ herd of mankind, that one may have the 
* convenience of thinking that one knows something. I find 
that the eyes which nature has given me, see many things 
very clearly, though some ara out of their reach, or discerned 
but dimly. What opinion ought I to have of a physician, who 
I should oner nie ap eye* water, the use of whicn would at first 
do sharpen my sight, as to carry it Hirther than ordinary Wa* 

lOft The Engtuk Reader. Part I J 

ion ; but would in the end put them out ? Your philosophv 
is to the eyes of the mind, what I have supposed tnc doctors 
nostrum to he to those of the bod^r. It actually broi^ht your 
ovm. excellent understanding, which was by nature ouick-' 
aghted, and rendered naore so by art and a subtilty or logic 

Seculiar to yourself— it brought, I say, your very acute un- * 
erstanding to s^e nothing clearly ; ana enveloped all the 
great truths of reason and seligion m mists of douht. 

Ba^. I own it did ; — but your comparison is not just 1 
did not see weM, before I used my philosophic egp'e-water ; I 
only supposed I ^w well : but I was in an error, with all the 
rest of mankind. The blindness was real, the perceptions 
were imaginary. I cured myself first of those false unagina- 
tions, and then I laudably endeavoured to cure other men. 

hodte. A great cere indeed ! — and do not you think that» 
^n return for the service you dia them, they ought to erect 
you a statue ? 

Baylt, Yes ; it is good for human nature to know its own 
weakness. When we arrogantly presume on a strength we 
have not, we are alw.ys in great danger -of hurting ourselves, 
or at least of deserving ridicule and contempt, by vain and 
idle efforts. 

Locke. I agree with you, that human nature should know 
its own weakness: but it should also feel its strength, and try 
to improve it. This was my employment as a philosopher. 
I endeavoured to discover the real powers of the mind, to see 
what it could do, and what it could not ; to restrain it from 
efforts beyond its ability ; but to teach it how to advance as 
far as the faculties given to it by nature, with the utmost ex- 
ertion and most proper culture of them, woudd allow it to go. 
In the vast ocean or philosophy, I had the line and the plum- 
met always in my hands. Many of its depths, I found 
myself unable to fathom j but. by caution in sounding, and 
the careful observations I made in the course of mv voyage^ 
I found out some truths, of so much use to manldnd, that 
they acknowledge me to have been their benefactor. 

Ba'tfie, Their Ignorance makes them think so. Some other 
philosopher will come hereafter, and show thoa^ truths to be 
falsehoods. He will pretend to discover other<^*uths of equal 
importance. A later sage will arise, perhaps among men 
now barbarous and unlearned, whose sagacious discoveries^ 
will discredit the opinions of his adittired predecessor. In 
philosophy, as in nature, all changes ilsform, and one thing 
exists by the destruction of another. 

^"OOfc^: Opinions taken up without a patient investigation^ 
^peawing :»n terms not accurately* defined, and principka 

(Zbypu7* DMsfgue^ DM 

Mgged wfttMOt piiM)f, likfitheoiiostD e^pkiinffaitpiianliiileiil 
of nature. buUtoa suppgsiti^m iii9tea4i/>i txpeiimtntB, nMMt 
peipetuaU J dMMig« bdnI destroy one aoother. But somtt o|>in- 
lOQB there aiie, tiven in muttera not obvious to the eommoft 
seose of mankiod, which the mind has receired od such ni« 
tional griouoda of assent, that ithey are as innzioTeflhle as the 
iMllars of heaven ; or \to speak fwiiiosophically) ss the great 
laws of Nature, ny which, under God, the umverse is suth 
foiaed. Can you seriously Chink, that, b€«ause the hypoth- 
esis of your countrymsii, Deseaitea, which was nothing but 
ao ingenious, weU-imagined romance, has been lately explo** 
ded, the system of Newton, which is built on experiments 
and geome^, the two most certain methods of discovering 
trut|i| will ever fail ; or that, because the whims of fanalksi 
and toe divinity of the schoohnen, cannot now be supported 
the doctrines of that religion, which I, the dedared enemy ot 
all enthusiasm and false reasoning, firmly believed and maior 
tained, will ever be shaken ? 

BayU. If you had asked Descartes, while he was in th« 
height of his vogue, whether his system would ever bo 
confuted bv any other philosophers, as that of Aristotle 
had been by his, what answer do you suppose be wouM 

Jj9€ku Come, come, you yourself know the difftmiceh«k 
tween the foundations on which the credit of those syatemi^ 
And that of Newton is placed. Your scepticism is mora 
affected than real. You found it a shorter way to a great rti- 
putation, (the only wish of your heart,) to object, than to de- 
fend ; to puU down, tiian to set up. And your talents were 
admirable for that kind of work. Then your huddling to- 
gether, in S. Critical Dictionary, a pleasant tade or obscene 
jest, and a grave argument against the Christian rel^on, ft 
witty confutation ofsoine absurd author, and an artful sophism 
to impeach some respcctaUe truth, was particularly comr 
modious to ail our young snuirts and smatterers in free-1||yik* 
ing* But what mischief have you not done to human soci<^ ? 
You have endeavoured, and with some deme of soecess, to 
shake those foundatioiHs, on which tiie vmole moral world, 
and the great fabric of social happiness, entirely rest How 
could you, as a pliilosopber, in the sober hours of reflection, 
answer fo>* tliis to your conscience, even sufiposiflg you had 
dmihts of the ibrutti of a system, which gives to virtue its 
sweetest hopes, t(r ins^eoitent vice its ^atwt fiears, and to 
true penitcoee ks h^x conoolaiaoaft ; wlneii festrains tflren tha 
least approiich«sfeo^ttt)t,anil yet makes those aUowancatlsr 
the mfif milies of ow: naiiiie vrhech tl»e£tdk« *"^ ^ -^--»-- 

lie The Engikh Reader^ fmf 1. 

it, but mbkh its rtol imperfecdon, and itm gooiSn«M of Hi 
infinitely benevolent Creator, aa evidently require ? 

Bayle. The mind is free ; and it loves to exert its freedom. 
Any restraint npon it. is a violence done to its natore, and a 
tyranny, aesunst which it has a right to rebel. 

Locke. The mind, though free, has a governor vntlun it- 
self, which may^ and ought to limit the exercise bf its freedom. 
That governor ia reason. 

Ba^. Yes: — but reason, like other ^vemors, has a 
policy more depend^t upon uncertain caprice, than upon any 
fixed laws. And if that reason, which rules my mind or 
yours^ has happened to set up a favourite notion, it not only 
submits impJicitljr to it, but desires that the same respect 
should be paid to it by all the rest of mankind. Now I nold 
that any man may laivfully oppose this desire in another, and 
that if he is wise, he will use his utmost endeavours to ehedc 
it in himself. 

Locke, Is there not also a weakness of a contrary nature to 
this you are now ridiculing? Do we not often take a pleasure 
in showmg our own power, and gratifying our own pride, 1^ 
degrading the notk>ns set up by other men, and generally, 

BayU. I believe we do; and by this means it often hap- 
pens, that, if one man bujSds and consecrates a tetople to fol- 
fy, another pulls it down. 

Locke. Do you think it beneficial to human society, to 
have at] temples pulled down ? 

Ba-T^ I cannot say that I do. 

Lo&e. Yet I find not in your writings any mark of distinc- 
tion, to show us which you mean to save. 

Ba^ A true philosopher, like an impartial historiai, 
must be of no sect 

LockB, Is there no medium between the blind zeal of a 
sectary^ and a total indifference to all religion? 

Baifi. With regard to morality, 1 was not indifferent 

Locke, How could you tlien be indifferent with regan} to 
the sanctions religion gives to morality? How could you pub- 
lish what tends so directly and apparentiy to weaken in man- 
kind the belief of those sanctions ? Was not this sacrificing 
the great interests of virtue to the little motives of vanity ? 

J^ijfU. A man may act indiscreetiy, but be cannot do 
wrong, by declaring tkat, whkh, on a rail discussion of th# 
queatson, he sincerely thinks to be true. ' 

Xocfte. An enthiaiast, who advances doctrines prejudicia) 
to aodety^ai owysfti ariy th&tare useful to it, haa. the strength 

and w heat of a Asturbed im^f^naioi^ lo pm4 

(SMp. 7* Diakigwc$* Ul* 

te aB cT k toi of Ui ftudt But your cool Iim4 9mA mmoA 
*iK%meot, OBD hare no such excuse. I know ymy well tfaero 
are paisages m all your works, and those not few, where you 
talk like a rigid moralist. I have also heard that your charao* 
ter was irreproachably good. But when, in the most laboured 
parts of your writings, you sap the surest foundations of all 
moral duties, what avaib it that m others, or in the conduct 
of your life, you appeared to respect them ? How many* 
who have stronger passions than you had; and are desirous to • 
get rid of the curb that restrains^them, will lay hold of vour 
scepticism, to set themselves loose from all obugations o. vir* 
tue : What a misfortune is it to have made such a use of sudi 
talents 1 It would have been better for you and for mankind, 
if you had been one of the dullest of Dutch theologians, of 
the most credulous monk in a Portuguese convent The 
riches of the nund, like those of fortune, may be employed 
so perversely, as to become a nuisance and pest, instead of 
an ornament and support to society. 

BayU. You are very severe upon me. — ^But do you count 
It BO merit, no service to mankind, to deliver them from the 
frauds and fetters of priestcraft, from the deliriums of fanati- 
osaa, and from the terrors and follies of superstition? Con- 
sider how much mischief these have done to the world! 
£veQ in the last age, what massacres, what civil wars, what 
convulsions of government, what confusion in society, did 
they produce! Nay, in that we both lived in, though much 
more enlightened than the former, did I not see them occa- 
sion a violent persecution in my own country? and can you 
blame me for striking at the root of these evils ? 

Locke. The root of these evils, you well know, was falsa 
rel%ion: but you struck at the true. Heaven and hell are not 
mor^ different, than the system of faith I defended, and that 
which produced the horrors of which you speak. Why 
would you so fidlaciously confound them together in some of 
yoiv writings, that it requires much more fudement, and a 
more diligent attention, than ordinary readers nave, to sepa- 
rate them again, and to make the proper distinctions ? This, 
indexed, is tl^ great art of the most celebrated free-thinkers. 
They recommend themselves to warm and ingenuous minds, 
by nvely strokes of wit, and by arguments reaUy strong, 
against superstition^ onthusiasm, ana priestcraft. But, at the 
same time, they insidiously throw the colours of these upon 
tlie fair fkce of true religion ; and dress her out in their garb^ 
with a maUgnant intention to render her odious or despicable^ 
U» those who have not penetration enough to discern tha 
iaipioui fraud. Some of tham may bava thus dacahMll 

ItB ' The BaglM Ekader. Ta/i 1. 

theantliMy as wtil is othen. Tet it is ocrtdii, no book: iliat 
ererwaftiriitten by the most acute of these gentlemen, is so 
repugnant to priestcraft, to spiritual tyranny, to all absurd 
stipeiratitions, to all that can tend to disturb or injure soeiety 
aa that gosjpel they so mneh affect to despise. 

Boyle. Mankind are so made, that, whentthey have been 
o^er-heated^lwy cannot be brought to a proper temper again, 
tiU they have been of er-cook»d. 31 y sceptidtsm might be ne- 
cessary to abate the ferer aiul phrensy of false religion. 

Locke. A wise prescription, indeed, to bring on a paralyt- 
ica! state of themiind, (for such a scepticism as yours is a 
palsy, which deprives th* mind of all vigour, and deadens its 
natural and vital po^vers,) in order to take off a fever which 
temperance, and the milk of the evangelical doctrines, would 
probably cure ! 

Bcn/le, I acknowledge that those medicines have a great 
power. But few doctors apply them untainted with the mix- 
ture of some harsher drugs, or some unsafe and riificulous 
nostrums of their own. 

Locke. What you now say is too tiiii. — God has given us 
a most excellent physic for the soul, in all its diseases ; but 
bad and interested physicians, or ignorant and' concefted 
quacks, administer it so ill to the rest of mankind, that much 
of the benefit of it is unhappily lost lobd LTTrrz.ETON. 

Cicero against Yerres. . 

THE time is come, Fathers, when that which has k>ng 
been wished for, towards allaying the envy your order 
has been subject to, and removing the imputations affainsttri- 
ais, is effectually put in your power. An opinion has long pre- 
vailed, not only here at home, but likewise in foreign coun- 
tries, both dangerous to you, and pernicious to the state, — 
that, in prosecutions, men of i^ealth are always safe, howev- 
er dearly convicted* « 

2 There is now to be brought upon his trial before you, to 
tlie confusion, I hope, of the propagators of this slanderous 
unputation, one whose life and actions, condemn him in the 
opinion of impartial persona ; but who, according to his own 
reckoning, and declared dependeBca upon his riches, is already 
acquitted; I mean Cains Verreti. I demand justice of you, 
f1alliM%upQn the robber of ^ puhbc treasury the oppresior 

Ohqi' a. PMU ffjiteJIet. f IS 

•C Alia Minor ud Pamphyliat the inTader offllM rightt tad 
priTflMS ofRomaoBytheMourge and cune of Sici]y» 

5 irthat lentence is paned upoa him which his crimaa 
deienre, your authority, Fathers, will be venerable and sa- 
cred m the eyes of thejpublic : but if hb great riches should 
bias you in his fitvour, i shall still gain one point, — to make 
it apparent to all the world, that what was wanting in this 
case, was not a criminal nor a prosecutor, but justice and 
adeqoAte punishment 

4 To |MSS over the shameful irregularities of hb youth, 
wrbat docs hb qusstorship. the first public employment he 
held, what does it exhibit, but one contbued scene of viHan- 
ies ? Gndus Carbo, plundered of the public money by his 
own treasurer, a consul stripped and betraye<L an army de- 
serted and reduced to wan^ a proYinoe rolioec^ the ciTil and 
rel^ous rights of a people yiokted. 

5 The employment ne held in Asia Minor and Pamphy- 
lia, what did it produce but the ruin of those countries ? in 
wnich houses, cines, and temples, were robbed by him 
"What was hb conduct in hb prstorship here at home ? Let 
the plundered temples, and public works neglected, that he 
might embeaiBle the money utended for carrymc them on, 
bear witness. How did he discharge the office oi a judge r 
Lict those who suffered by hb injustice answer. 

6 But hb pr»torship in Sicily, crowns all his works of wick 
edness, and nnishes a lasting monument to his infemy. The 
mischiefs done by him in that unhappy country, dunng the 
ttuieeyearsofhb iniquitous administration, are such, that many 
years, under the wisest and best of praetors, will not be suKl 
cientto restore thinp to the condition in which he found them ; 
for it b notorious, that, during the time of his tyranny, the Si- 
cilians neither enjoyed the protection of their own original 
laws ; of the regulations made for their benefit by the Roman 
senate, upon their coming under the protection of the com* 
monwealth; nor of the natural and unalienable rights of men. 

7 Hb nod has decided all causes in Sicily for these threo 
years. And hbdeciuons have broken all law, all prece- 
dent, an right The sums he has, by arbitrary taxes and 
unheard-of impositions, extorted from the industrious poor, 
are not to be c<Mnputed. 

8 The most fiuthful allies of the commonwealth JhaVe bees 
treated as enemies. Roman citizens have, like slaves, been 
put to death with tortures. The most atrocious a-iminali^ 
for money, have been exempted from the jdeserved puoisb^ 
mcnts; and men of the most unexceptionable charactoi^ 
.eondfiomed and banbhed unheard. 

114 The A^tKA itHd^. Pmi U 

t Hut hailNHin^ though MdSekrrtly ft>i^tittei, «ndft»gat«t 
of strong toivm, haye been opened to piriileif wbA mTikgen. 
i%e BOlffiery and sailore, belonging to a {Mn>Vkiee under Ifae 
protection of the Gommoflwealtfi, have been Btanwd to<leath ) 
whole fleets, to the ^reat detrinaent of the ^rOtfaice, aui&mi 
to perish. The ancient monnments of efther SidliMi «r Rod- 
man greatness, the statues of hero<!!$ and nriDom, hav^ 
been tarried on ; and the temples stripped <of tbe imi^s. 

10 Having, by his iniquitous sentenees, filled the prisons 
with the most indiettrious and deserving i^ the people, he 
then proceeded to order numbers of Roman dti^ens to be 
strangled in the gaols : so that the eitclaaiation, <U am a. citi- 
jBen of Rome 1" which has often, in tiie fliost cMstantregioB^ 
and among the most barbarous people, been a protection, 
was of no service to them ; but, on the contmrjs brought « 
speedier and a more severe punishment upon them. 

Ill ask now, Yerres, what thou hast to advance against 
this charge P Wilt thou pretend to deny it ? Wilt thou pre* 
tend, that any tMng false, that even any thing aggravated, is 
alkqged against thee? Had any piinoe oranyittte, eom- 
mitted the same outrage against me privilege ^Rssoali cki* 
leens, should we not think we had sufficient gKHmd for do* 
mttsding satis&ction ? 

12 What punishment ought, then, to beiniteCed ig|ioa a- 
tyiamneai and wicked pnetor, who dared^ lA no greater dis- 
tance than Sicily i within aght of the Italian coast, to opt to the 
infkmous deidi of crucifixion, that unfortunate mm innocent 
citisen, PubKus Gavius Gosanus, only for his having asserted 
bis privilege of citizenship, and declared his intention of «p*> 
pealing to the jusdce ofnia ^untry. against the cruel o^* 
pressor, who had unjustiy confined nim in prison at Sjira- 
inise, whence he had just made tus escape ? 

Id The unhappy man, arrested as he was going to embsrit 
for his nattve country, is brought before the wicked pnetpn 
With eyes darting mry, and a countenance distorted i?ith 
cruelty, he orders the helpless victim of his rage to be strip- 
ped, and rbds to be brought : accusing him, but without tse 
least shadow of evidence, or even of 'suspicion, of faairisg 
come to Sicily as a spy. 

14 It was m vain that the unhappy man cried out, ^ I am 
a Roman cHazen : I hare served undeK Lucius Pretius, who 
is now at Panormus, and will attest my imioeenoe.'' Tho 
Mood-thh^ prcetpr, deaf to all he could urge in his owa de* 
4»ee, orden^l the infemous pumshment to be ipfiJdML 

15 Thus, Fathers, was an innocent Roman dtisen puUielT 
flsni^ with scouvpnc; whilst the only wtMNbJMiittii«4 

eaasp.8. PtAOe SpeecktB. '' ' ^ US 

snidft hk etwA mifferinn, wero,*^! am a Roman dtneol" 
With these he kopedto<iefeiid himself from violeDce sod in* 
fiunY. But of so Bttle service was this privilege to him, thst^ 
wiiiie he was thus asserting his citnensfaip, the order wai 
giren for his executioDy— for his execution upon the cross ! 

16 O liberty ! — O sound once delightful to every Roman 
ear! — O sacred privilege of Roman citizenship! — oncesa* 
cred ! — now trampled upon ! — ^But what then : Is it come 
to this ? Shall an mferior magistrate, a governor, rrho holds 
his whole power of the Roman people, in a Roman prov 
mce, within sight of Italy, bind, scourge, torture with fire 
and red-hot plates of iron, and at last put to the infamous 
death of the cross, a Roman citizen ? 

17 Shall neither the cries of innocence expiring in agony, 
nor the tears of pitying spectators, nor the majesty of the 
Roman comnKmwealtl^ nor the fear of the justice of his 
country, restnun the licentious and wanton cruelty of a 
monster, who. in confidence of his riches, strikes at the root 
of liberty, and sets mankind at defiance ? 

18 I conclude with expressing my hopes, that your wis- 
dom and justice, Fathers, will not by suffering the atro- 
cious and unexampled insoleace or Caius Verres to ebcape 
due punishment, leave room to apprehend the danger or a 
total subversion of authority, and the introduction of gene- 
ral anarchy and confusion. cicero's oratioks, 


J^peeek qf Adherbal to (he Roman Senate^ imploring their 
protedion against Juourtba. 


IT is known to you, that king Micipsa, my fatoer, on his 
dea^-bed, kit in tiharge to Ju^urtha, his adopted son, 
oonjunctiy with my unfortunate brother Uiempsal and my- 
•d^ the f^ildren of his own body, the administration of tne 
kingdom of Numfdia, direodng us to consider the senate and 
people of Rome as proprietors of it He charged us to us* 
eur best endeavours to be serviceable to the Kom»o com* 
raoDWealth ; assuriius ^ ^^^^ J^^^ protection would prove 
R defence againitaireBemies; and would be instead of ar- 
miesjfertifieations^ amL treasures. 

ft While mjrbrottierand I, were thinkingof nothing but how 
to i«eulBte 'ouraelvei acoordiog to the directions of our de- 
eeased fother — Jugurtha — the siioet infamous of nuinkindi — 
fcwMafcfaiMg tlvott^ idl tieb «r gratitude and of common hu- 
MBM^ and liiiiiplioi; ^m the autkori^ of the Eomw 

lis The BngBA lUmthr. Pmf4t. 

monwealtii, procured tfaemurder of my 'anlortimate brothtf : 
md has driven me from my throne and native country, though 
he knows I inherit, from my grandfather Massiniasa, and my 
father Micipsa, the friendsnip and aliianeeofthe Romans. 
S For a prince to be reduced, by viUany, to my distressful 
larcumstances, is calamity enough ; but my misfortunes are 
heightened by the consiaeration — that I find myself obliged 
^ solicit your assistance, Fathers, for the services done you 
^y my ancestors, not for any I have been able to render you 
m my own person. Juguilna has put it out of my power to 
deserve any thing at your iiands ; and has forced me to be 
burdensome, before I could be useful to you. 

4 And yet, if I had no plea, but my undeservea mlseij — 
a once powerful prince, the descendant of a race of illustnous 
monarchs, now, vrithout any fault of my own, destitute of 
every support, and reduced to the neciBssity of be^ng for- 
eign assistance, agidnst an enemy^who has seized my throne 
and my kingdom — if my unequalled distresses were all 1 
had to plead — it would become the greatness of the Roman 
commonwealth, to protect the injured, and to cheek the/tri- 
umph of daring wickedness over nelpless innocence. 

5 But, to provoke your resentment to the utmost, Jugur- 
tha has driven me from the very dominions, which the sen- 
ate and people of Rome gave to my ancestors ; and, from 
which, my grandfather, ana my father, imder your umbrage, 
expelled Syphax and the Carthaginians. Thus, Fathers, 
your kindness to our family is defeated ; and Jugurtha, in 
mjuring me, throws contempt upon you. 

6 O wretched prince ! On cruel reverse of fortune ! Oh 
lather Micipsa ! Is this the consequence of thy generosity ; 
that he, whom thy goodness raised to an equality with thy 
own diiidren, should be the murderer of thy children? 
Must, then, the royal house of Numidia always be a scene 
of havoc and blood ? 

7 While Carthage remained, we suffered, as was to be 
expected, all sorts of hardships from their hostile attacks ; 
our enemy near ; our only powerful ally, the Roman com- 
monwealtn, at a distance. When that scourge of Africa was 
BO more, we congratulated ourselves on thie prospect of estab- 
lished peace. But, instead of peace, behold the kingdom 
of Numidia drenched with royal blood ! and the only survi- 
ying son of its late king, flying from an adopted murderer, 
ano^seekiq^ that safety in foreign parts, wnich he cannot 
command in his own kiugdom. 

8 Whither— Oh ! wh^cr shall 1 fly ? If I return to the 
njtl piliw ^ my woamiton, nf ftitDer^i thveoa is w^k^ 

ai#9i«« FmbBc SpeeekeB. 117 

bytlle nutfdnrer lyTnirbfotlwr. Wtart can f Here Mcpect, 
but that Jnnirtba ahoakl liasteD to imbrue, in any blood, Inoie 
bands wbk».are now reeking with my brother's ? If I were 
to fly for refuge or for awiBtance to any other court, frmn 
what prince ^can I hope for protection, if the Roman eom- 
momweakh give me up ? From my own family or friends, 
I have no expectatioQe. 

9 My royal (bther is no more. He is beyond fhe reach of 
violence, and out of hearing of the complaints of bis unhap- 
ny son. Were mylirother aKve, our mutual sympathy wotud 
lie some alleviation. But he is hurried out or life, in his 
early youth, by the very hand which should have been the 
last to injure any of the royal family of ?Jumidia. 

10 The bloody Jugurtha has butchered all whom he sus- 
pected to be in my interest. Some have beep destroyed , by 
the fingering torment of the cross. O&ers have been given 
a prey to wild beasts ; and their anguish made the sport of 
men more cruel than wild beasts. If there be any yet alive, 
they are shut up in dungeons, there to drag out a life more in- 
tolerable than death itself. 

11 Look down, illustrious senators of Rome ! from that 
height of power to which you are' raised, on tile unexampled 
ifistresses of a prince, who is, by the cruelty of a wicked in- 
truder, become an outcast from all mankind. Let not the 
crafty insinuations of him who returns murder for adoption, 
prejudice your judgment. Do not listen to the wretch who 
nasbutohered tne son and relations of a king, who gave him 
power to sit on the same throne with his own sons. 

1£ I have been informed, that he labours by his emissaries 
to prevent your determining any thing against him in his ab- 
sence { pretttiding that I magnify my distress, and might, 
for him, have 8t£d in peace m my own kingdom. But, if 
ever the time comes, when the due vengeance from above 
shall overtake him, ne will then dtssemue as I do. Then 
he, who now. hardened in wickedness, triumphs over those 
whoai his violence has laid k>w, will, in his turn, feel diBtre(», 
and suffer for his impious ingratitude to my father, and his 
blood-thirsty cruelty to my brother. 

IS Oh murdered, butchered brother ! Oh dearest to my 
heart— 410W gone for ever from my s%fat ! — ^but why should 
I lament his death ? He is, indeed, deprived of the blessed 
light of heaven, of life, and kingdom, at once, by the very 
person who ought to have been the first to hazard his own 
life^in defence of any oorof Micipsa's &mily. But, as things 
are^ my brother is not so much deprived of these comfort^ 

tit: ns Mi^gUA RiaAr. Pattti 

9t deilT«r«d fWrni terror, from ffiglit, from oill^ andtim 
«Qdl«M tndn of miteriea which render hfeto me a burdea. 

14 He lies full low, g;ored with wounds, and festering in fais 
own blood. But he lies m peace. He feds none of the nruseries 
which rend my soul with ag|ony and distraction, while I am 
set up a spectade toaU mankind, of tiie uncertainty of humzm 
a£f lira So far from having it in my power to punish hb 
murderer, I am not master of the means of securing my own 
life. So iar from being in a condition to defend my kingdom 
from the violence of the usurper, I am obliged to apply for 
foreign protection for my own person. 

15 Fathers! Senators of Rome! the arbiters of nations ' 
to you I iiy for refuse from the murd^^us fury of Jugur- 
tha. — By your affection for your children : by your love for 
jpur country ; by your own virtues; by tae majesty of the 
Roman conmionwealtk ; by all that is sacred, and all that ia 
dear toTou — ^deliver a wretched prince from undeserved, 
unprovoked injury ; and save the kingdom of Numidia, which 
is your ow;n property, from being the prey of violence, usur- 
pation, and cruelty. saliiUst. . 


JTAc Apostle Paul'js notkdeftnctheJbreFitsrtTB ^ Ag&ippa. 

AGRIPPA said unto Paul, thou art permitted to speak 
for thyself. — ^Then Paul stretched forth his hand, and 
answered for himself. I think myself happy, king Agrip-^ 
pa, because I shall answer for myself this day before tnee, 
concerning all the things whereofl am accused by the Jews : 
especially, as I know thee to be expert in all customs and 
ouesttons which are among the Jews. Wherefore 1 beseech 
wee to hear me patientiy. 

ft My manner of life from my youth, whidhi was at the 
first among my own nation at Jerusalem, know all the Jews: 
who knew me from the beginning) (if they would testify,) 
that after the streutest sect of our reiieion, I nved a Pharisee. 
And now I stand and am judged for me hope of the promise 
made by God to our &thers ; to which })romise, our twelve 
tribes, continusQly serving God day and night, hope to come: 
and, for this hope's sake, king Agrippa, I am accused by 
the Jews. 

3 Why should it be thought a thing incredible with you, 
that Godshould raise the dead? I verily thought with mysalf, 
that I ought to do many things contrary to the name of Jesus 
of Nazareth : and this i did in Jerusalem. Many of the saints 
I shut up in prison, having rec^ved authority from tha 
chief priests : and when they wera put to deatih^ 1 gave mf 

€Xw. 8. PubKc Speeeiei. US 

f oieis ^%Mmt thf m. And 1 often punisb^ tkem in «Terj 
synagogue, and compelled them to blaspheme ; and being 
exceedingly piad against them, I persecuted them even unto 
strange cities. 

4 But as I went to Damascus, with authority and coBi- 
mission from the chief priests at mid-day, O king I I saw 
in the way a light from neaven, above the brightness of the 
sun, shining round about me, aqd them who journeyod with 
me. And when we were all fallen to the earth, I heard a 
Toice speaking to me and saying, in the Hebrew tongue, 
Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me ? It is hard for thee to 
kick against the pricks. And I said, who art thou. Lord ? 
And he replied, I am Jesus whom thou persecutest 

5 But rise, and stand upon thy feet : for I have appeared 
to thee for this purpose, to make thee a minister, and a wit> 
ness both of these things which thou^iastseen, and of thos^ 
tilings in which I will appear to thee ; delivering thee from the 
people, and from the Gentiles, to whom I now send diee, 
to open their eyes, and to turn them from darkness to light^ 
and (rom the tH>wer of Satan to God ; that they may receive 
forgiveness or sins, and inheiitanGe amongst them who ara 
sanctified by faith that is in me. 

6 Whereupon, O king Agrippa ! I was not disobedient to 
tlie heavenly vision ; but showed first to them of Damascus. 
Hiid at Jerusalem^ and through all the coasts of Judea, ana 
then to the Gentiles, that they should repent, and turn to 
God, and do works meet for repentance. For these causes, 
the Jews caught me in the temple ; and went about to kill 
me. Having, however, obtained help from God, I contin- 
ue, tf» tiiis day, witnessing both to small and great, saying 
no other things than those which the prophets and Moses 
declared should come ; that Christ shoula suffer ; that ho 
would be the first who should rise from the dead ; and that 
he would show light to the people, and to the Gentiles. 

7 And as he thus spoke for himself, Festus said, with a 
loud voice, "Paul, thou art beside thyself; much learn iJHf 
hiith made thee mad." But he replied, 1 am not mad, mcit 
noble Festus ; but speak the words of truth and soberness. 
Ft)r tlic king knoweth these things, before whom I also speak 
freely. I am persuaded that none of these things are hidden 
from him ; for this thing was not done in a comer. King 
Agrippa, believest thou the prophets.' I know that thou 
believeat. Then Ampfm said to Paul, ** Almost thou per- 
suadest me to be a Chnstian." And Paul replied, ^ I would 
to Oodt that Bot only thou, bat also all that hear me tfab 

ISO The English Reader Parti. 

day, were botfa'afanost, and altogether such as I am, except 
these bonds."* acts xxri. 


Lord Mansfield's speech in the House qfPeerSy 1770, on t^ 
k^fir prtveiniing ihe ddays ofjusHce^ by claiming the Prieir 
Itge ofPaHiameni, 


WHEN I consider the importance of tins bill to jour 
londships, I am not surprised it has taken up so much 
of your eonsideration. It is a bill, indeed, of no conunon 
magnitude ; it is no less than to take away from two thirds of 
the legislatire body of this great kingdom, certain privileges 
and immunities of which tney haTe been long possessed. 
Ferhaps there is no situation the human mind can be placed 
in, that is so difficult and so trying, as when it is made a judge 
in its own cause. • 

ft There is something implanted in the breast of man so 
attached to self, so tenacious of privfle^es once obtained, that 
in such a situation, either to discuss with impartiality, or de- 
cide withjufitice, has ever beeo held the summit of all humaii 
virtue. The bill now in question, puts your lordships in this 
very predicament ; and I nave no doubt the wisdom of your 
decision will convince the world, that where self-interest and 
justice, are in oppovte scales, the latter wHl ever preponder- 
ate with your lordships. 

3 Piivilegeshave been granted to legislators in all ages, and 
in all countries. The practice is founded in wisdom ; and, 
indeed, it is peculiarly essential to the constitution of this 
country, that the members of both houses should be free in 
their persons, in cases of civil suits : for there may come a 
time when the safety and welfare of this whole empire, 
may depend uponlheu* attendance in parliament I am far 
from advising any measure that would in future endanger the 
state: but the bill before your lordships has, I am confident, 
no such tendency ; for it expressly secures the persons of 
members of either house in all civil suits. 

4 This being the case, I confess, when I see many noh|e' 
lords, for whose jud^ent I have a very ereat respect, staiid- 
ing up to oppose a bill which is calculated merely to facilitate 
the recovery of just and legal debts, I am astonished and 

* How happy was this ^jeat Apostle, even in th« most perilous circumstances ! 
Tliough under bemli alid oppivssion, hfe mind was free, and raised above every 
Cear of man. With wliat dHgnhjr and eoaif osora does he defend himaelf« and 
.he noble cause he bad espouaed *, whilst he displays the moat compaaaionaf aiKl 
generous feeling^ for those who w«re strangers to the aubUme reiigiffk by 

Thfiy, i ddMbt^ not, •ptipiw the bill u^on puMie ptfaidplwt 
1 witukL not wiali to insimiHte, tliat pnimtc interest had tho 
least weight in tiieir determination. 

5 The bill has been frequently proposed, and as freqtiently 
has miscarried : but it was always lost in the lower lious«» 
Liittle did 1 Uiink, when it had passed the Commons, that it 
poasiblv could have met with such opposition here. Shall it 
be saidi, that you, my lords, the grand council of the Dation« 
the highest itidiciai and legislative body of the realm, endeav^ 
our to evaae, bv privilege, those very laws whidi you en- 
force on your fellow subjects? Forbid it justice! — ^I am sure, 
were the noble lords as well acquainted as I am, with but 
half tiie diHlcidties and delays occasioned in the courts of 
justice, under pretence of privilege, they would not, nay, 
they could not, oppose this bul. 

6 I have waited with patience to hear what af)pmieDts 
might be urged against this bill ; but I have waited m vain : 
the truth is, there is no argument that can weigh against iL 
rnie justice and expediency of the bill, are such as render it 
self-evident. It is a proposition of that nature, which can 
neither be weakened by argument, nor entanglr a with soph* 
isfry. Much, indeed, has been said by some noble lords, 
on the wisdom of our ancestors, and how differently they 
thou^t firom us. They n(»t only decreed, that privilege 
should prevent all civil suits from proceeding during the sit- 
ting of parliament, but likewise eranted protection to the 
Tery servants of members. I shall say nothing on the wis- 
dom of our%Hcestors ; it mightperhapsappear invidious: that 
is not necessary in the present case. 

7 I shall only say, that the noble fords who flatter them- 
selves with the weight of that reflection, should remember, 
that as circumstances alter, thines themselves should alter. 
Formerly, it was not so fashionabfe either for masters or ser** 
vants to run in debt, as it is at present Formerly, we were 
not that great commercial nation we are at present ; nor 
formerly were merchants and manu&cturers meinbm of 
parliament as at present Tlie case is now very diierent : 
both merchants suid manufacturers are, with great propri'stj 
elected members of the lower house. 

8 Conunerce havingthus got into the legislatire body of the 
kingdom, privil^e must be done away. We all know, tbMl 
the very soul and essence of trade, are regular paymentw i 
nd sad experience teaches us, that there are men, who will 
M make their regolar pa3rments without the compiusive pow» 
m^itmhtm 4b«^lMvtboBOiiitatlobaa^^o|i«ii»at. 

Its Tke BrnglUk lUaier. Tori 1. 

Kaf t)xeliipUou to pArtacularmen, orpartictiUur rinla ofimsny 
i9y in a free ftnd comnoemal country, a soiedam of tiie 

grossest nature. 
, 9 But I will not trouble your lordships with arramentB for 
tbat, which is sufficiently evident without any« laball onljr 
say a few words to some noble lords, who foresee muck in- 
coDvenience, from the persons of their servants being liable to 
be arrested. One noole lord observes, That the coi^chman 
of a peer may be arrested, while he is driving bis mmtec to 
che House, and that, consequently, he will not be able to 
attend his duty ia parliament If this were actually to hap* 
pen, there are so many methods by which the member ini|mt 
still get to the House, tha^l can hardly think the noble lora » 
serious in his objection. 

10 Another noble peer said, That, by this bill, one nufht 
lose his most valuable and honest servants. This I holato 
be a contradiction in terms : for he can neither be a vaJuable 
servant, nor an honest man, who gets into debt, which he 
is neither able nor willing to pay, till compelled oy the law* 
If my servant, by 'unforeseen accidents, has gotmto deb^^ 
and I still wish to retain him, I certainly would pay the de- 
mand. But upon no principle of liberal legislation whatever,, 
can my servant have a title to set his creditors at defiance^ 

proceedings for the future, by passing into alaiii.||ie bill now 
under your lordships' consideration. 

Ill now come to speak upon what, mdeed, I would Jiave 
gladly avoided, had Inot been particular^ pointed at, for the 
part I have taken in this bill. It has been said, by a noble 
lord on my left hand, that I likewise am running the^race of 
popujarity. If the noble lord means bypopulanty, thatap- 

Flause bestowed by after-ages on good andT virtuous actioMy 
have lon^ been struggling in that race : to what purpose^ 
all-trying time can alone determine: 

12 But if the noble lord means that mushroom popularity, 
whidi is raised without merit, and lost without a crime, he 
is much mistaken in his opinion. • I defv the noble lord to 
point out a single action of mv life, in wnich the popularitf 
of die times ever had the smallest influence on my detemir* 
nations. I thank Ood, I have a more permanent and steady 
rule- for my conduct, — ^the dictates of my own breast 

• 1 STkoae who have foregone that pleaBingadTi8er,aniciv4» 
ly tbair roBid to he Uie alare of eveiry oopulto uapiihti i ib» ^ 

Otep. 8. i PMie Speeches 121 

cerety pity : I pity them stSH more, iftheir runty leads tbem 
to misteke the^ ahoutu of a mob, for the trunipt- 1 of faniiv— 
Experience might inform them, that many, who have beiyi 
Saluted with the huzzas of a crowd one day, have received 
their execrations the next; and many, who, by the popularity 

14 Why then the noble lord can think I am ambitious of 

F resent popularity, that echo of folly, and shadow of renown, 
am at a loss to determine. Besides. I do not know that the 
bill now before your lordships, wilt ue popular : it depends 
much upon the caprice of the day. It may not be popular 
to compel people to pay their debts ; and, m that case, tJie 
present must be a very unpopular bill. 

15 It may not be popular either to take away any of the 
privileges of parliament ; for I very well remember, and 
many of Tour lordships' may remember, that, not long ago, 
the popular cry was for the extension of privilege ; and se 
far did they carry it at that time, that it was said, the privilege 
protected members even in criminal actions ; nay, such was 
the power of popular prejudices over weak minds, that tb# 
very decision of some of the courts, were tinetured with that 
doctrine. It was undoubtedly an abominable doctrine. 1 
thought so then, ftnd I think so still : but, nevertheless, it 
was a popular doctrine, and came immediately from those 
who are called the friends of liberty ; how deservedly, time 
will show. *■ 

16 True liberty, In my opinioi^, can only exist when justice 
Is equally adniinistered to all ; to the king and to the beggar. 
Where is the justice then, or where is the law, that protects 
a member ofj^arliament, more than any ojther man, from the 
punishment due to his crimes? The laws of this country allow 
of no place, nor any employment, to be a sanctuary fo^ 
crimes ; and where ( have meiionour to sit as judge, peither 
royal favour, nor popular i^plause, shall protect the guilty. 

17 I have now onl^ to beg pardon for having employed so 
much of your lordships* time ; and 1 am sorry a bill, fraught 
with so many good consequences, has not met with an abler 
advocate : but! doubt noi your lordships* determination wiU 
convince the world, that a bill, calculated to contribute so 
nau<^h to the equal distribution of justice as the present, n»- 
quires with your lordships but very little support 

{ :m 


Joi addre$$ 16 young petmmi, 

I INTEND, in this address, to show you the importance aX 
beginning early to gire serious attention to your conduct 
As soon as you ase capable of reflection, you must perceive 
that there is a right ana a wrong in human actions. You see, 
that those who are horn with the same advantages of fortune, 
«re not all equally prosperous in the course of life. While 
tome of them, bv wise and steady conduct, attain distinction 
in the world, and pass their days with comfort and honour ; 
others, of the same rank, by mean and vicious behaviour, for- 
feit the advantages of their oirth ; involve theniselves in much 
misery ; and end in being a disgrace to their friends, and a 
burden on society. 

2 Bari}r, then^ may you learn, that It is not on ihe external 
eondition in which you find yourselves placed, but on tha 
part which you are to act, that your welfare or unhap|>iness, 
your honour qr infamy, depends. Now, when beginning to 
act that part, what can be of ^ater moment, than to rejgu- 
late your plan of conduct with the most serious attention, 
before you have yet committed any fatal or irretrievable er- 
rors ? 

, 3 If, instead of exerting reflection for this valuable pur- 
pose, you deliver Yourselves up, at so critical a time, to sloth 
and pleasures ; if you refuse to listen to any counsellor but 
huniour, or to attend to any pursuit except that of amuse- 
ment : u you allow yourselves to float loose and careless on 
the tiae of life, ready to receive any direction which the cur- 
rent oif fashion may chance to give you ; what can you expect 
to follow from such beginnings ? 

4 While so many around you are undergoing the sad con- 
iequences of a like indiscretion, for what reason shall not those 
consequences extend to you ? Shall you attab success with- 
out that preparation, and escape dangers without that pre- 
caution, which are required of oilers? Shall happiness grow 
up to you, of its own accord, and solicit your aoceptance. 
When, to the rest of mankind, it is the fruit of long cultivation, 
and the acquisition of labour and care ? 

5 Deceive not yourselves with those arrogant hopes. — 
Whatever be your rank, Providence will not, for your sake, 
reverse its estaJblished order. The Author of your being hath 
enjoined you to "take heed to your ways; to ponder the 
paths of your feet ; to remember your Creator in the days of 
your youth." 

• H« hath decraed, that they only " who s«ek afttr vis- 

CSbvNd. PMhSp€e€hm^ ^ f ' ll» 

don, shall find it; tliatfoob ihall b«afflictfid« becaiae of 
their transgreauons ; and that whoever refusoth instruction, 
phaU destroy his own soul." By Hsteninf^ to these, iHlnionir 
lions, and tempering the vivacity of youth with a proper mix- 
tore of serious thought, you may ensure cheerfulness for the 
rest of life ; but by defiverins yourselves up at present to 

S'ddiness and levity, you lay tae foundation of lasting hcavi- 
sss of heart 

7 When you look forward to those plans of life, which 
either your circumsfcinctw have suggested, or your friends 
have proposed, you will not hesltnte to acknowledge, that in 
order to pursue them with advantage, Home previous disci- 
pline is requisite. Be a.ssun»d, that whaTever is to he your 
profesnon, tw education is more rie<M*ss«ry to yotir surcess, 
than tlie acquirement of virtuous dispusitions and habits. — 
This is the universal preparation lor every charactei and 
every station in life. 

8 Bad as the world is, rrspectis always paid to virtni? In 
the usual course of hmnan aiTairs, it will bf:; found, a 
plain understanding, joined with arknowlfd^^ed worth, con- 
tributes more to prospprity, than tli<; bri;;htest parts without 

firobity or honour. vVhethcr scii-nce or busini'Ss, or pob- 
iclife. be your aim, virtue still cntrrs, for a principal share, 
into all those great departments of socifty. It is connected 
with eminence, in every liberal art ; nith reputation, in every 
branch of fair and useful business; with distinction, in every 
public station. 

9 The vigour which it gives the mind, and the weight which 
it adds to character ; the i^enerons sentiments which it 
breathes ; the undaunted snlrit which it inspirt'S ; the ardour 
of diligence which it quicKens ; the freedom which it pro- 
cures from pernicious and dishonourable avocations ; are the 
foundations of all that is higlily honourable, or greiitly suc- 
cessful among men. 

10 Whatever ornamental or engaginj^ endowments you now 
possesSyiyirtueisanecossiU'V requisite, in oi*der to their shining 
with proper lustre. Feeble are the attractions of the fairest 
form, if It be suspected that nothing within, corresponds to 
the pleasing appeiirancc without. Short are the triumphs of 
wit, when it is supposed to be the vehicle of malice. 

1 1 By whatever means you may at first attract the attention, 
you can hold the esteem, and secure the hearts of others, only 
livamiabWdispositionSfaDd Uie accomplishments of the mind. 
These are the qualitLes whose influence will last, when the 
lustre of all that once sparkled and dazzled has passed awagb 


K6 TU En^Jk RMder Pmfl. j 

12 Let not then the seaton of youth be barren of kiipr9?e* 
cnts, 8o essential to your future felicitj and honour. Now 
the seed-time of life ; and according to ^ what you sow, ' 
m shall reap." Your character is now, under Divine Ab- 
itance, of your own forming; your fate is, in some meaB- 
e, put into your own hands. 

13 Your nature is as yet pliant and soft. Habits hare not , 
tablished their dominion. Prejudices have not pre-occo- 
sd your understanding. The world has not had time to 
ntract and debase your affections. All your powers are 
ore vigorous, disembarrassed, and free, tlian toey wiU be 
any future period. 

14 Whatever impulse vou now give to your desires and 
ssions, the direction is likely to continue. ^ It will form the 
annel in which your life is to run ; nay, it may determine 

I everlasting issue. Consider, then, tne employment of 
is important period, as the highest trust which shall ever 

committed tu you ; as in a great measure, decisive of your 
ppiness in time, and in eternity. 

15 As in tlie succession of the seasons, each, by the invana- 
i laws of nature, affects the productions oC what is next im 
urse ; so, in human life, every period'of our age, accordioc 
it is well or ill spent, influences- the happiness ofthat which 
to follow. Virtuous youth, gradually brings forward ac- 
mplished and flourishing manhood ; and such manhood, 
sses of itself, without uneasiness, into respectable and trao- 
itl old age. 

16 But when nature is turned outof Jt9 regular course, 
sorder takes place in the moral, just as in the vegetable 
>rld. If the spring put forth no blossoms, in summer there 

II be no beauty, and in autumn, no fruit : so, if youth be ^ 
fled away without improvement, tnanhood will probably be 
ntemptible, and old age miserable. If the beginnings of 

8 have been " vanity,*" its latter end can scarcely be any 
her, than "vexation of spirit" 

17 1 shall finish this address, with calUng your attention to 
at dependence on the blessing of Heaven, wMch, amidst all 
mr endeavours after improvement, you ou^bl coTi\!\n\u^ \a 
eserve. It is too common with the young, eveti WhsxixSEi^^ 
solve to tread the path of virtue and honour,to«^l<>>xtV)Vai 
esumntuous confidence in themselves. 

18 Trusting to their own abilities for carr^i^^ \heta «\c>^ 
ssfully through life, they are careWss of app\^ti^ to Qco^ 
of deriving any assistance from what the.'v are aplloT^i^om 
e gioomv discipline of religion. Alas I hcrw \ktl\^ do ^er^ 
low the daDgers which await theBk?iI^^thcThu]niKkva«id»iii^ 


OMp^ B PmUk Speeeiew* ISf 

oar hiiBu^ nitue. unsopportod by religioii, is equal to the 
f^yiag utuatioDS wUich often occur in Dfe. 

19 By the shock of tumpfstiun, how frequently hare the 
most virtuous intentions been overthrown ? Under the press- 
ure of disaster, bow often has Hw greatest constancy sunk ? 
"Every good, and every perfect gift, is from above." Wis- 
dom and virtue, as well as ^* riches and honour, come from 
God." Destitute of his favour, you are in no better situation, 
with all your boasted abilities, than orphans left to wander in 
a trackless desert, without any guide to conduct them, or 
any shelter to cover them from £e gathering storm. 

SO Correct, then, this ill-founded arrogance. Expect 
not, that your happiness can be independent of Him who 
made you. By faith and repentance, apply to the Redeemer 
of the workl. By piety and prayer, seek the protection of 
the God of heaven. 

£1 I conclude with the solemn words, in which a great 
priooe delivered liis dying charge to his son : words, whkh 
every yOung person ought to consider as addressed to himself, 
and to engrave deeply on bis hesirt : ^ Solomon, my son, 
know thou the God of thy fathers : and starve biin with a 
perfect heart, and with a willing mina. Far the Lord search- 
e£h all hearts, and understandetli all the imaginations of the 
tnoudhts. If thou seek him, he u ill l)e found of thee ; but L 
thou rorsake him, he will cast thee oli* for ever." blair.. 




Earthquake at Calabria, in the year 16S8. 

AN account of this dreadful earthquake, is ^iven by the 
celebrated father Kircher. it happened whilst he was on 
hisjdurney to visit Mount iBtna,ancl the rest of the wonders 
that lie towards the South of Italy. Kircher is considered, 
by scholars, as one of the greatest prodigies of learning. 
** Having hired a boat, in company with four more, (two fri- 
irs of the order of St Francis, and two seculars,) we launch- 
^ from the harbour of Messina, in Sicily ; and arrived, the 
ame day, at the promontory of Pelorus. Our destination 
waa £ur the city of Eupheemia, in Calabria ; where we had 
•ome business to transact ; and where we designed to tarry 
for some time. 

t ^However, Brovidenoe seemed willing to cross our defign ; 
(or we were onli^ to continue thre^ days at Pelorus, 

t^% Thi Engfyh Reader. Part I. 

on aeedunt ef tbe weather ; and tbouch w« often put out to 
sea, yet we were as often driven back. At length, wearied 
widi the delay, we resolved to prosecute our voyage ; mid, 
although the sea seemed more than usually agitated^ we 
ventured forward. 

3 ''Thegulfof Charybdis, which we approached, seemed 
whirled round in siich a manner, as to form a vast hoUowi 
verging to a point in the centre. Proceeding onward, ana 
turning my eyes to ^tna, I saw it cast forth large volumes 
of smoke, of mountainous sizes, which entirely covered ^e 
island, and blotted out the very shores from my view. This, 
together with the dreadful noise, and the sulpnurous stench 
which was strongly perceived, filled me with apprehensions, 
that some more dreadful calamiity was impenciing. 

4 '^The sea itself seemed to wear a very unusual appear- 
ance : thev who have seen a lake in a violent shower or rain, 
covered ail over wfth bubbles, will conceive some idea of its 
agitations. My surprise was still increased, by the calmness 
and serenity of the weather ; not a breeze, not a cloud, which 
might be supposed to put all nature thus into motion. I 
'herefore warned my companions, that an earthquake was ap- 
proaching ; and, after some time, making for the shore with 
all possible diligence, we landed atTropsea, happy and thank- 
ful for having escaped the threatening dancers of the sea. 

. 5 ** But our triumphs at land were of snort duration ; lor 
we had scarcely arrived at the Jesuits' College, in that city, 
when our ears were stunned with a horrid sound, resembling 
that of an infinite number of chariots, driven fiercely for> 
ward ; the wheels rattling, and tfie thongs cracking. * Soon 
after this, a most dreadful earthquake ensued; the whefe 
tract upon wVich we stood seemed to vibrate, as if we were 
in the scale pf a balance that continued wavering. This mo- 
tion, however, soon grew more violent ; and bemg no longer 
able to keep ihy legs,! was thrown prostrate upon the eround. 
In the mean time, the universal ruin round me, redoubled 
my amazement 

'6 ''The crash of falling houses, the tottering of towers, and 
the groans of the dying, all contributed to raise my terror 
and despair. On everv side of me, 1 saw nothing but a 
scene or ruin ; and dangh: threatening wherever I should 
fly. 1 recommended myself to God, as my last great refine. 

7 "At that hour, O how vain was every sublunary happi- 
ness! Wealth, honour, empire, wisdom, all mere assess 
sounds, and as empty as the bubbles of the deep! Just standing 
on tbe threshold oi eternity ,notbinff but God wasmy pleenirer 
aad the Qearer I a|)proached, 1 ouy loved him the moMk 

8 * AfltrMnns "fiiiiey bowefcr, flnoliig thst'f fbbiaiMcl vi* 
tiaH^ amidst Ibe prntsm eoncoBnon, 1 resolved to Tcntun Ibr 
safetT ; ttnd ra«ning as fesc as I could, i renehed the 'shore, 
l>ut atinost terrified out of my reason. I did not search long 
tiens. till I found the boat in which I had landed ; and my 
c^ompanions also, whose terrors were CTen greater than mine.' 
Our itif^ting was not of that kind, where etcrry one is diisi<* 
reus of telling his own happy escape ; it was all silence, acid m 
^lootny drcMl #f impendinr terrors. 

9 **lstfivm^ this seat or desolation, we prosecuted nuv, 
▼oyago along the cl>ast; andHhe next day came to Rochettn, 
^vhere we landed, although the earth still continued in tio^ 
lent agitations. But we had scarcely arrived at ouf inn, whim 
-we were once more obliged to return to the boat ; and, in 
about half an hour, we saw the greater part of the town, and 
the inn at ^ which we had put up, dashed to the ground, bu- 
rying the inhabitants beneath the ruins. 

10 ^ In this manner, proceedhig onward hi our little ves* 
tiel, ftndine no safety at land, and yet, from the sma11nesS''of 
our boat, having but a very dsngemus continuance at sea/ 
w« at length landed af Lepinum, a castle midway between 
Tropfta and Euphsmia, the city to which, as I said before^ 
we were bound. Here, wherever I turned my eyes, oetii* 
ing but scenes of 'ruin and hontH* appeared ; towns and €&%» 
ties levelled to^the ground: Strombon, though at sixty milav 
distance, belching forth -flames in an unusual manner, and 
with a noise which I could distinctly hear. 

11 '^Put mj attention was quickly turned from more r^- 
mot6, to contiguous danger. The rumbling sound of an 
approaching earthquake, which we by this time were grown 
acquainted with, alarmed us for the consequences : it every 
moment seemed to grow louder, and to approach nearer* 
The place on which we stood now began to shake most 
dreadnilty ; s6 that being unable to stand, my companionil 
and I. caught hold of whatever shrub grew next to us, and 
supported oursehnes in that manner. 

IS ^ After some time, this violent paroxysih ceasing, we 
again stood up, in order to prosecute our voyage to fiuphae-t 
mia, which lay '^tbin sight. In the meantime, while we 
were preparing for this purpose, I turned my eyes towards 
the city, nut could see only a frightful dark cloud, that seem** 
ed to rest upon the place. Tins the more surprised us, as 
the weather waS so very serene. 

13 ''We waited, therefore, till the cloud had passed away 
then tdming to'look for the ehy, it was totally sunk. Won 
derftil to «0ll!'iiotbi.ig kir« dismal and patrid laka wai 

Mw wrtttNl H ttnod. W« looked about |o find Kiqae oim 
that cMiJd left tH of its sad Gatastropbe, but coidd see no per- 
ton. AM was beoome a melaucholy solitude { a scene of 
hideous desolation. 

14 '^Tbus proceedinr pensively alon^^, in quest of some 
humau being that could ^ve ua a tittle informatioD} we at 
lensth saw a boy sittini^ by the riiore^ and appearini; stupi- 
fled with iMwrar. Of him, therefore, we inquired concern- 
in«; the Me ef the city ; but he could not be preyaileid on to 
gire us an answer* , 

15 <* We entreated him, with erery expression or tender- 
ness and pity to telt us ; but his senses were quite wi^pt up 
in the contemplation of the danger he had escaped. We of- 
fered him some victuals, but he seemed to loath the nght. 
We still persisted in our offices of kindness ) but be only 
pointed to tlie place of the city, like one out of his Senses* 
and then, mnmng up into the woods, was never heard of 
afler. Sudi wm the fiite of the city of £upb«mia. 

in '^ As we eontinued our melanchoHr eourse akmg the 
shore, the whole coast* for the space of two hundred mile9» 
presented nediinsr but the remains of cities ; and men scatter^ 
ed, withottt a habitation, over the fields. Proceeding thus 
ahM, we ait length ended our distressful yoyage by arriring 
at ^^;»ies, after iiavuig escaped a thousand dangers both at 
ana and land.** 60x*d8Mith. 

LBUerfiom Pliht to Gsminius. 

DO we not sometunes' observe a sort of people, wnni 
thouf^li they are themselves under the abject dominion 
#Cevery vice, sfaow a kind of miJicious resentment asalnst the 
errors of others, and are most severe upon those whom thej 
most resemble? yet, surely, a lenitv, of dii^»o8ition, even m 
persons who hare the least occasion for clemency thfflnselvesy 
m of all virtues the most becoming. 

S The highest of all characters, in my estimation, is his, 
who is as readv to pardon the errors of mankind, as If he were 
every day guilty of some himself ; and, at Uie same time, as 
cautious ot committing a faulty as if he never foijgave one. 
It is a rule then which we should, upon all occasiOttS| both 
private and pubfic, most religiously observe: ^to be mexo* 
rable to our own failings, whoe we treat those of the rest of 
the world with tenderness, not excepting even such as for* 
give none but themselves." 

9 1 shall, perhaps, be asked, who it is that has gnren occa 
sion tn llMia ra fls ctio ns. Know then thalaeartain 

Cka/tB. fhmtUeiHm^ Pieee*. 131 

lately " ^ hnt of Qiat wImo we meet ■ tt Hwirti, ^loo seeooq 
thouglitSy not even theD;le8k) iHrikill eondfenm and mtotm 
hk conduel. I shall act «ouoter to that maxim I partieulariT 
recommencL Whoerer, therefore, and whatever he ib, ahan 
remtaiii in aleocex for thon^ there may be some use, per« 
hapsi in >etlioc a mark upon the man, rar the sake of exam* 
pie,, there wiUbe more, however, in sparing him, for tho 
sake oflmmanity* Farewet* mbi»moth's fliht, 


Later from Tiiar IoMarcCllihusoii Uu ittdk of an amia^ 

hie young tcoman, 

I WRITE this under the utmost ^^pressioo of sorrow : the 
youngest daughter of my friend Fundanus, is dead ! 
Never surely was there a more an%«*able, and nMNne amiahla 
young person, or one who better deserved to have enjoyed a 
long, I had almost said, an immortal life ! She had all the 
wisdom of age and discretion of a matron, jiNned with youtb* 
fui sweetness and virgin modesty, 

S With what an engaging fondness did she behave to her 
fiither ! How kindly ana respectfully receive his friends ! How 
affectionately treat all those who, in their reiqpective officeS| 
had the care and- education of her ! She employed much off 
her time in readinCfin which she discovered great strength of 
judgment; she indulged herself in few divernons, and those 
with much caution. With what forbearance^ widi what pa* 
tience. with what courage, did she endure ner bst illness ! 

9 She complied with all the directions of her physicians ; 
ahe encouraged her sister, and her father ; and, when all hev 
strength of Body, was exnausted, supported herself by the 
aiiM^ vigour of her nnnd. That, indeed, continaed, even 
to ner last moments, unbroken bj the pain of a long illness, 
Qt llie terrors of approaching death ; and it is a reiectroD 
w!«cb makes the loss of her so much the more to be lament-* 
ed. ^ loss infinitely severe ! and more severe by the par* 
ticuiar conjuncture in which it happened ! 

4 She was contracted to a most worthy youth j the wed- 
ding-day was fixed, and we were all invited*--— How sad a 
chan^ from the highest ioy, to the deepest sorrow ! How 
shall 1 express the wound tfcn&t pierced my lieart, when I 
heard Fundanus himself, (as |;riei is ever fioN&ig out drcum- 
stances to aggravate its affliction,) ordering the money he had 
designed to uiy out upon cfothes and jewels^ for her mar* 
nage. to be employed in myrrh and spices for her funeral f 

^ He is a man of great karmng and ^ood sense, who haa 
ippMf4 himeK Amnhiaoaifiaitjouth to the q nbl ss t an4 

most demled sMkIkh : but nW- th«'in«ickiis of fdrtifiifc vhieh 
he has ^ceirvKt rrom Hiib^ks;' dr dtdfniuied himself^ he now 
srb»olutely rtjefts ; and every other Tirtoe of his heuft gives 
plaee to m1 a prarent's tendemesiT. We shiiH excuse, we shall 
eveD approve his sorrow^ when #e consider what he has lost 
He has lost a daughter who resembled him m Ills ttHtrniers, as 
well as bis person ; and exactly copied out all heir fotheh 

6 If his friend Marcellinus sffaH think prraer to wrke to 
him, upon the subject of so reason^bio a grief, let me remind 
him not to use the rougher arguments of consolation, and 
such as seem to carry a sort of reproof with them ; but those 
of kind and sympathizing humanity. 
• 7 Time will render hito tnore open to tlie dictates of rea- 
son : for as a fresh womid shrinks back from the hand of the 
surgeon, but by degrees submits to, and even requires the 
means of its cure ; so a mind, under the ilrst impresmons of 
a misfortune, shuns and rejects all arguments of consolation, 
butat length, if applied ^vith tenderness, calmly and willingly 
acf'siesces in them. Farewell. Melmoth's Flint. 


On diacreium. 

HAVE often thought, ifthe minds ofmen were laid open, 
we shoukl see but little diflR^rence between that of a wise 
msji, and that of a fool. There are infinite reveries, num* 
betless extravagances, and a succi^on Of vanities, which past 
through both. The great diiference is, that the first knowa 
bow to pick and cull his thoughts' for conversation, by sup- 
pressing some, and communicating others; whereas the oth- 
er lets tnem all indifferently fly out in words. This sort of 
discretion, however, has np' place in private conversation 
between intimate friends. On such occasions, the wisest men 
very often talk Kke the weakest ; for indeed, talking with a 
friend, is nbthing efee than thinking iakmd» 

9, Tully has tnerefore very justly exposed a precept,4eliv- 
ered by some ancient Writers^ That a man should five with 
his enemy in such a manner, as might leave him room to be- 
come his Ariend; and wi^h his friend, In such a manner, that, 
if he became his enemy, it should not be in his power to hurt 
him. The first part of this rule. Which regards our behav- 
iour towards an enemy, is indeed very reasonable, as well as 
very prudential ; but the latter part ofit,irhich regards our 
beliaviour towards a friend, savours more of cunning than of 
discretbn : and would cut a man off* from the greatest pleas- 
ures of life, wlttch art the freedoms of conversation with a bo- 
ao» friend. Besides that wiiitt a friend ia tomed inlo an 


«KBi7% tbr wtorld m juat enouj^h to accuae the perfidiootness 
of the Irieod^^ rather than the lodiscretioa of the pereoo who 
confided m him. 

ft Discretion does not only show itself in words, but in all 
the droumstanceB of action } and is like an under-agent of 
Providence, to guide and direct us in the ordinary concerns 
of lile. There are many more shining Qualities in the mind of 
man, hut there is none so useful as discretion. It is this, 
indeed, which ipves a value to all the rest ; which sets them 
at woiic in their proper times and places ; and turns them 
to the advantage of the person who is possessed of them. 
.Without it, leaminc is pedantry, and wit impertinence ^ virtue 
itself Jooksitke weakness ; the best parts only qualify a man to 
be more sprightly in errors, and active to his own prejudice. 

4 Discretion does not only make a man the master of his 
own parts, but of other meo^s. 1'he discreet man finds out 
the talents of those he converses with ; and knows how to 
apply them to pro][>er uses. Accordii»;ly, if we look into 
particular communities and divisions ofmen, we ma v ob* 
serve, that it is the discreet man, not the witty^ nor the learn- 
ed, nor the brave, who guides the conversation, and ^ives 
measures to society. A man with great talcnte, hut void of 
discretion, is like Polyphemus in the fable, strong and blind; 
endued with an irresistible force, which, for want of sight, 
18 of no use to him. 

5 Though a man has all other perfections, yet if he wants 
discretion, ne will be of no great consequence in the world : 
on the contrary, if he has this single talent in perfection, ana 
but a common share of others, he may do what he pleases in 
his particular station of life. 

§ At tlie same time that I think discretion the' most useful 
talent d man can iMs.innster of, I look upon cunning to be the 
accom^lisliment of little, mean, ungenerous minds. Discre- 
tion points out the noblest ends to,us ; and pursues the most 
proper and laudable methods of attaining them : cunning has 
only private selfish aims ; and sticks at nothing which may 
make tliem succeed. 

7 Discretion has large .^od extended views ; and, like a 
well- funned i^^e, commands a whole honxon : cunning is a 
kind of short-sightedness, that discovers the minutest objects 
which are near at hand, hut is not able to discern things at a 
distance. Discretion, the more it is discovered, gives a great- 
er autlionty to fhe person who possesses it: cnmung^ when 
U is once cietectied, loses its force, atjd makes a mao mcapa 
ble of brii^gingahuut even those events which he might have 
doattk had am pa)lft«>d(Kily ix a plain man. 

IM fie BnglUh Reader. Fmti I. 

S DiflCTBtion is the peHbcfion ofra«soo,a]idttgiiidet»«» 
In all tbe duties of life: cuimin^ is a kind of instinct, tht^mdy 
looks out after our immediate interest and welfare* Discf^ 
tion is only found in men of strong sense and good under- 
standings : cunning is often to be met with in brutes them- 
selves ; and in persons who are but the fewest lemoTeefrom 
them. In short, cunning is only tiie mhnic of discretion ; 
and it may pass upon weak men, in the same manner as Ti- 
Tacityis often mistaken for wit, and gravity, for wisdom. 

9 /The caiftt of mind which is natural to a discreet man. 
makes him look forward into futurity, and consider what will 
be his condition millions of ages hence, as well as what it is at 
present He knows that the misery or ha)>pines8 which^ is 
reserved for him in another worlds loses nothing of its reality 
by being placed at so great a distance from hun. The ob- 
jects do not appear little to him beoause they are remote. 
He considers, that those pleasures and pains which lie hid in 
eternity, approach nearer to him every moment ; and will be 
present with him in their full weight and measure, as much 
as those pains and pleasures which he feels at this very in- 
stant For this reason, he is careful to secure to himself 
that which is the proper happtoess of his nature, and the ul- 
timate design of his being. 

10 He carries bis thoughts to the end of every action ; and 
^considers the most distant, as well as the most immediate ef- 
fects of it He supersedes every little prospect of nun and 
advantage which ofifers itself here, if he does not fiivd it con- 
sistent with his views of an hereafter. In a word, his hopes 
are fidl of immortality ; his schemes are large ana glorious; 
and his con4uct suitable to one who knows his true mterest,. 
and how to pursue it by proper metiiods. adbison. 

On Hit govemmeni •fmut ihauf^ie. 

A MULTITUDE of cases occur, in which we are no less 
accountable for what welhink, tnan for what we do. As, 
ftrst, when the introduction of any train of thought de- 
pends upon ourselves, and is our voluntary act, by turning 
our attention towards such objects, awakening such passions, 
or engaging in such employments, as we know must give a 
pecutiardeterminationtoour thaugtits. Next^ when thoughts^ 
by whatever accident they may have been originally suggest- 
•d^ are indulged with deliberation and oomplacency. 

f ThoiMh the mind has been passive m their reception^ 
and, theye&m free from blame ; yet, if it be actire in their 
contiauancsi^ the gnilt beeomee ili ow«. They inay Imwm 

iolruded at inrt^Uks unbidden (fuetts; but i^ wk«Q 6Blerfed« 
tbejr are made welcome, and kindly enterteined) the caie w 
tlie flame as if they had been invited from the be^paniog. 

S If we are thus accountable to God for thoughts dther 
Toluntarily introduced, or deliberately indulged^ we are ho 
lew so, in the last place, for those whicn find admittance into 
our hearts from, supine negligence, from total relaxation of 
attentiopf from allowing our imagination to rove with entira 
license, " like the eyes of the fool, towards the ends of tha 

4 Our minds are, in this case, thrown open to foUy and ran- 
ity. They are prostituted to every evil thing which pleases 
to tsike poHsession. The consequences must all be charged to 
our account ; and in vain we plead excuse from human infir- 
mity. Hence it appears, that the great object at which we 
are to aim in govenung our thoughto, is, to take the most ef- 
fectual measures for preventing the introduction of such as 
are sinful ; and for hastening their expulsioiu if they shall 
have introduced themselves without consent or the will. 

5 But when we descend into our breasts, and examine how 
far we have studied to keep this object in view, who can tell, 
*^ how oft he hath offended ?" In no article of religion or 
morals are men more culpably remiss, than in the unrestrained 
indtdgence they give to iancv : and that too, for the most part, 
without remorse. Since the time thai reason began to ex- 
ert her powers, thought, during our waking hours, has beeir 
active in every breast/without a moment*s suspension or pauses 

« The current of ideas has been always flowing. The 
wheels of thespirituid'engine have circulated with perpetual 
motion. Let me ask, what has been the fruit of this incessant 
activity, with the greater part of mankind ? Of the innumera- 
ble hours that have been employed in thought, bow few are 
marked with any permanent or useful efl^? How many 
have either passed away in idle dreams ; or have been aban- 
doned to anxious discontented musing, to unsocial and ma- 
lignant passions, or to irregular and cnminaldesires ? 

7 Had I power to lay open tliat storehouse of iniquity which 
the hearts of too many conceal ^ coukl I draw out and read 
to them a list of all the imaginations they have devised, and 
all the passionythey have indulged in secret ; what a picture 
of men should I present to themselves ! What crimes would 
they appear to have perpetrated in secrecy, which to their 
moat intimate companions they durst not reveal ! 

8 Even when men imagine their thoughts to be mnocantly 
employed, they too commonly suffer tliem to run out mto ex- 
travagant imaginations, and chimerical olans of whal tl»«v 

t^S The Snsrlhh Reader. Parti. 

woidd r/i^ to attun, or choose to be, if theyoould frame the 
course of ^inss according to their desire. Though such em- 
ployments of ntncy come not under the same description with 
those whiph are plainly crimina], yet wholly unblamable they 
seldom are. Besides the waste of time which they occasion, 
and the misappfication which they indicate of those intellec- 
tual powers that were j^ven to us for much nobler purposes, 
such romantic speculations lead us always into the neighbour- 
hoo d of forbidden regions. 

9 They place us on dangerous ground. They are, for the 
most part, connected with some v»ne bad passion : and they 
always nourish a giddy and frivolous turn of thought They 
unfit the mind for applying with vigour to rational pursuits, 
or for acquiescing in ^o\vBr plans of conduct From that ideal 
world in which it allows itself to dwell, it returns to the com- 
merce of men, unbent and relaxed, sickly and tainted, averse 
to discharging the duties, and sometimes disqualified even 
for relishing the pleasures of ordinary life. 

On th£ emi8 tofnchJUnofrom unrestraiTied pousums. 

WHEN man revolted from his Maker, his passions rebel- 
led against himself; and, from being originally the 
ministers of reason, have become the tyrants of the soul. — 
Hence, in treating of this ^^ubject, two things may be as- 
sumed as principles: first, that tfirough the present weakness 
of the understanding, our passions are often directed towards 
improper olu^cts ; and next, that even when their direction 
is just, and their objects are innocent, they perpetually tend 
to run into excess ; they always hurry ^s towards their crat- 
iHcatioiit with a blind and dangerous impetuosity. On mese 
two points, then, turns the whole government of our pas- 
^ons : first, to ascertain the proper objects of their pursuit ; 
and next, to restrain them in that pursuit, when they would 
carry us beyond the bounds of reason. 

2 If there is any passion which intrudes itself unseasonably 
into our mind, wnich darkens and troubles our judgment, or 
habitually discomposes our temper ; which unfits us for 
properly discharging the duties, or disqualifies us for cheer- 
fully enjoying the comforts of life, we may, certainly con- 
duae it to have gained a dangerous ascendant The great 
«tjiect which Wfs ought to propose to ourselves, is, to acquire 
a nrm and steadfast mind, wnich the infatuation of passion 
shall not seduce, nor its violence shake ; which, resting on 
fixed principles, shall, in the midst of contending emotions, 
free^ and master of itself; able to listen calmly to 

&e w^Aem of ^MttCMiHs*^ and prepared to obey'lbi .dtetatai 
without bentatioo. 

9 To obtain, if poosible, such cemmand of passianiis ong 
of the highest attainments of the ralional nature. Ai:^- 
ments to show its importance, crowd upon us from every 
c|[uarter. If there be any fertile source of mischief to human 
hfe, it is, beyond doubt, the misrule of passion. It is this 
which poisons the enjoyment of individuals, overturns the 
order of society, and strews the path of life with so many 
miseries, as to render it indeed the vale of tears^ * 

4 All those ^at scenes of public calamity, which we be- 
hold with astonishment and horror, have originated from the 
source of violent passions. These have overspread the earth 
with bloodshed. These have pointed the assassin's daeger, 
and filled tibe poisoned bowl. These, in every age, have 
furnished too copious materials for the orator's pathetic dec- 
lamation, and for the poet's tragical song. When from pub- 
lic life we descend to private conduct, though passion ope- 
rates not there in so wide and destrucnve a sphere, we «nall 
£nd its influence to be no less baneful. 

5 I need not mention the black and fierce pasnons, such as 
envy, jealousy, and revenge, whose effects are obviously 
noxious, and wnose agitations are immediate misery; but take 
any of me licentious and sensual kind. Suppose it to have 
unlimited scope ; trace it throughout its course ; and we 
shall find that gradually, as it rises, it taints the soundness, 
and troubles the peace, of his mind over whom it reigns ; 
that, in its progress, it engages him in pursuits which are 
marked either with danger or with shame ; Ithat, in the end, 
it wastes his fortune, destroys his health, or debases his char- 
acter ; and aggravates all the miiseries m which it has involved 
him, vrith the concluding pangs of bitfer remorse. Through 
an the stages of this fatal course, how many have heretofore 
run ? What multitudes do we daily behold pursuing it, with 
blind and heaffiong steps? BLAtiu 

0» AejprcgMr 8te<e qfmir temper, mi&iruped to <mea$u4her, 

IT is evident, in the general, that if we consult either pub- 
lic wellaie or private happiness, Christian ehaiihr ought to 
regulate our disposition in mutual interaourse. But as tins 
^at principle admits of several drversified appearances, let 
useonsder some of the chief forms under winch it ought to 
show itself in the usnal-tenour of life. 

2 What, first, presents itself to be recommeodied, is a 
peaceable temper ; a dispositaiMi averse to K»re ofkm% end 

19S 7%e Ef^Kfih Reader. Tmri !• 

derirom of cidtsvating harmony, and amkaMe intercoune 
in society. This supposes yielding and condescending man- 
ners, um^^IImgneas to contend nim others about trifles, and, 
in contests that are unavoidable, proper moderation of spirit. 
5 Such a temper is thfe first principle of self-enjoyment 
Itbthebasisofall order and happiness among mankind. The 

Sositive and contentious, the rud^ and quarrelsome, are the 
ane of sodety. They seem destined to hiast the small share 
of comfort, which nature has here allotted to man. But the^ 
cannotdisturiftthe peace of others, more than they break their 
own. The hurricane rages first in their «wn bosom, before it 
is let forth upon the world. In the tempests which they raise, 
they are always tost ; and frequently it is their lot to perish. 

4 A peaceable tamper must be supported by a candid one, 
or a disposition to view the conduct of others with flumess 
and impartiality. This stands opposed to a jealous and sus- 

Sicious temper, which ascribes every action to the worst mo- 
ve, and throws a black shade over every character. If we 
would be happy in ourselves, or in our connexions with 
others, let us guard against tnis malignant spirit Let us 
study that charity " which thinketh no evil ;'' that temper 
which, without degenerating into credulity, will dispose us to 
be just ; and which can allow us to observe an error, without 
imputing It as a crime. Thus we shall be kept free from that 
continual irritation, which imaginary injuries raise in a sus- 
picious breast ; ana shall walk among men as our brethrea:!, 
not as our enemies; 

5 But to be peaceable, and to be candid, is not all that is 
required of a good man. He must cultivate a kind, jgener- 
ous, and sympatiiizing temper, which feels for distress, 
wherever it is beheld ; which enters into the concerns of his 
friends with ardour ; and to all with whom he has inter- 
course, is gentle, obliging, and humane. How amiable 
appears such a disposition, when contrasted with a malicious 
or envious temper, which wraps itself up in its own narrow 
interest, looks with an evil eye on the success of others, and, 
with an unnaturat satisfactton. feeds on their disappouitments 
or miseries i How little does he know of the true happiness 
of life, who is a stranger to that intercourse of good offices 
and kind afiections, which, by a pleasing chart ttaches 
men to one another, and circulates joy from heai heart ! 

6 We are not to Imagine, that a benevolent te - finds 
no exercise, unless when opportunities offer of | ming 
actions of high generosity, or of extensive utilit bese 
VMfteldom occur. ^nitconditioBofthegraato -tan- 

Chap. 9. iVoiiiitcifbic9 Pieeei. 199 

kind,'ln a good measure.j>redude8 thenu Buf, in the ordi- 
nary roana of human afiairs, many OGcasiofis daily present 
tbemselTesiOf miti^ting the vexations which othem siifler ; 
of soothing their minds; of aiding their interest; of promo- 
ting th^ cheerfulness or ease. Such occasions may relate 
to tbe smaller inddents of life* 

7 But let us remember, that of small jncidents the system 
of human life is chiefly composed. The attentions which re- 
spect these, when suggestea by real benignity of temper, are 
f ften more material to the happiness «./ those around us, than 
Actions which carry the appearance of greater dignity and 
splendour. No wise or good' man, ought to account any 
rules of hehayiour as below his regard, which tend to cement 
the ^at brotherhood of mankind in comfortable union. 
Particulaity amidst that fiimiliar intercourse which belongs to 
domestic bfe, all the virtues of temper find an ample range. 

8 It is very unfortunate, that within that circle, men too 
often think themselves at liberty to give unrestrained vent to 
the caprice of passion and humour. Whereas there, on the 
contrary, more than any where else, it concerns tnem to 
attend to the government of their heart ; to check what is 
violent in their tempers, and to soften what is harsh in their 
manners. For thejre the temper is formed. There, the real 
charaeter displays itself. Tne forms of the world, disguise 
men when abroad. But within his own fomily, every map 
is known to be what he truly is. 

9 In all our intercourse then with others, particularly in 
that which is closest and most intimate, let us cultivate a 
peaceable, a candid, a gentlct and friencHy temper. This 
IS the temper to which, oy repeated injunctions, our holy 
refi^on se^ks to form us. This was the temper of Christ 
1^ is the temper of Heaven. 


Excellence ofihe holy Scriptures. 

IS it bigotry to believe the sublime truths of the Gospel 
with full assurance of faith ? 1 glory in sudi bigotry. J 
would not part with it for a thousand worlds. J congratulaU 
the man who is poss^oed of it ; for amidst all the vicissi- 
tudes and calamities of the present state, that man enjojs an 
inexhaustible fund of consolation, of which it is not m the 
power of fortune to deprive lum. 

£ There is not a book on earth, so favourable to aB the kmd, 
and all the sublime affections ; or so unfrieodly to hatred and 
owao cution, to tvranliT. to iniurtiee. and evorr sort of makvo- 

140 Tim Bngibk RmdtiK \PmHt. 

lenoe, m the (vOspeL It breathw notbhig tfarotigfaoitt, but 
apaercy, benevx)lence, and peace. 

3 Poetry is sublime, when it awakens in the mind anygraat 
and good affection, as piety, or patriotism* Tiiis is one of the 
noblest effects of the art The Psalms are remarkable, be- 
yond all other writings, for their power of inspiring deTout 
emotions. But it is not in tMs respect only, that they are 
, >ublime. Of the divine nature, they contain the most magnifi- 
cent descriptions, that the soul of man can comprehend. 
The hundred and fourth Psalm, in particular, displays the 
power and goodness of Providence, in creating and preserv- 
ing the worla, and the various tribes of animals m it with such 
majestic brevitjr and beauty, as it is in vain to look for in any 
human composition. 

4 Such ot the doctrines of the Gosoiel as are level to hmnan 
capacity, appear to be agreeable to tne purest truth, aiid the 
soundest raoralitv. All the genius and learning of the hea- 
then world ; all the penetration of Pythagoras, Socrates, and 
Aristotle, had never been able to produce such a system of 
moral duty, and so rational an account of Providence and of 
nyin, as are to be found in the New Testament Compared, 
indeed, with this, all other moral and theological wisdom 

Loses, discountenancM, and like folly shows. sxiiTTiE. 


ReJleciioTis occasioned by a review of the blessings pronounced 
by Christ on his discijdes^ in his sermon on the Ynount, 

WHAT abundant reason have we to lihank God, that this 
large and instructive discourse of our blessed Redeem- 
er, is so particularly recorded by the sacred historian. Let 
every one that " hath ears to hear," attend to it : for surely 
no man ever spoke as our Lord did on this occasion. Jm 
us fix our minds in a posture of humble attention, that we 
may " receive the law from his mouth." 

2 He opened it'with blessings, repeated and most import- 
ant blessings. But on whom are they pronounced ? and 
whom are we taught to think the happiest of mankind ? The 
meek and the humble ; the penitent and the merciful ; the 
peaceful and the pure ; those that hunger and. thirst after 
righteousness ; those that labour, but famt not under perse- 
cution ! Lord ! how different are thy maxims from tliorfe of 
the children of this world ! 

3 They call the proud happv; and admire the jay, tlie rich, 
(he }>owerfu]2 and the rietonous. But let a vain world take 
ils ^audv trifles, and dress up the foolish creature^i that 
IMniM tbm^ May our Boub share in tiiat hsfpinees, wjuch 

Chmp, 9 Promkeuoui Pieces. 141 

the Son of God eiime to recommend and to proeure ! May 
we obtain mercy of the Lord ; may we be owned as his chif* 
drea ; enjoy his presence ; and inherit hia kingdom ! Witii 
these enjoyments, and these hopes, we will cheerAdly wel- 
come the lowest, or the most painful circumstances. 

4 Let us be animated to cultivate those amiable viftues, 
which are here recommended to us ; this humility and meek- 
ness ; this penitent sense of sin ; this ardent desire after right- 
eousness; this compassion and purity; this peacefulnesa 
and fortitude of soul ; ^and, in a word, this universal good- 
ness which becomes us, as we sustain the character of^ the 
salt of the earth," and " the light of the world." 

5 Is there not reason to lament, that we answer the char- 
acter no better ? Is there not reaaM to exclaim with a good 
man in former times, ^ Blessed XiOrd ! either these are not 
thy words, or we are not Christians I" Oh, season our hearts 
niore eflfectually with thy erace ! Pour forth that divine oil 
on our lamps ! Then shaU me flame brighten ; then shall tho 
ancient honours of thy religion be revived ; and multitudes 
be awakened and animated by the lustre of it, *^to glorify 
eiflr Father in heaven." doddridoe. 


Schemes of life often iUusory. 

OMAR, the son of Hassan, had passed seventy-five yean 
in lionour and prosperity. Tne favour of three succes- 
sive caiift had filled Ids house with gold and silver ; and when- 
ever he appeared, the benedictions of the people proclaimed 
his passage. ^ 

ft Terrestrial happiness is of short continuance. - The bright- 
ness of the flame is wasting its fuel ; the* fragrant flower ii 
passing away in its own odours. The vigour of Omar began 
to fail ; the curls of beauty fell from his head ; strength de- 
parted from his hands ; and agility from his feet. He gave 
back to the caJif the keys of trust, and the seals of secrecy : 
and sought no other pleasure for the remains of life, than the 
converse of the wise, and the gratitude of the good. 

3 The powers of his mind were yet unimpaired. His cham- 
ber was nll^d by visitants, eager to catch the dictates of ex- 
p<;rie.ace, ftid officious to pay the tribute of admiration. 
Caled, the son of the viceroy of Ejj^ypt, entered every day 
early, and retired late. He was beautiful and eloquent: 
Oinar admired his wit, and loved his docility. "TelJ me," 
said Caledy '^ thou to whose voice nations have listened, and 
whose wisdom is known to the extremities of Asia, tell roe 
how i may resemhle Omar the prudent The arts by whicl:i 

14% The EngUak Reader Pari 1 

thoa hast gained power and presenred it, are to thee no ]on^ 

Sser necessary or useful ; impart t6 me the secret of thy coo- 
luct, and teach me the plan upon which &y wisdom has 
built thy fortune/' 

4 ^ I oung man," said Omar, " it is of little use to form 
plans of life. When I took my first survey of tae world, in 
in^ twentieth year, having considered the various conditions 
of^mankind, iii the hour of solitmJe I said thus to myself, 
leaning against a cedar, which spread its branches over my 
head, " Seventy years are allowed, to man ; I have yet fifty 

5 " Ten years 1 will allot to the attainment of knowledge, 
and ten I will pass in foreign countries ; I shall be learned^ 
and therefore snail be ho|j^red ; every city will shout at my 
arrival, and every student^ll s(4icit my friendship. Twen 
ty years thus passed, will store my mind with ims^es^wliich 
I shall be busy^ through the rest or my life, in comoimng and 
comparing. I shall revel in inexhaustible accmnulations of 
intellectual riches ; I shall find new pleasures for every mo- 
ment ; and shall never more be weary of my self, 

6 " I will not, however, deviate too far from thebeaten track 
of life ; but will try what can be found in female delicacy, I 
will marry a wife beautiful as the Hoivies, and wise as Zo- 
beide : with her 1 will tive twenty years within the suburbs 
of Bagdat, in every pleasure that wealth can purchase, and 
fancy can invent. 

7 " I will then retire to a rural dwelling ; pass my days in ob- 
scurity and contemplation ; and lie silently down on the bed 
of d^ath. Through my life it shall be my settled resolution, 
that I will never depend upon the smile oi princes ; that I will 
never stand exposed to the artifices of courts ; I will never 
pant for public honours, nor disturb my quiet with the afiairs 
of statc.'^ Such was my scheme of liiie, which I impressed, 
HideliUy upon my memory. 

8 '^The first part of my ensuing time ^ was to be spent in 
search of knowledge, and I know not how I was diverted from 
my design. I had no visible impediments without, nor any 
ungovernable passions within. I regarded knowledge as the 
highest honour, and the most engaging pleasure ; yet day 
stole upon day, and month glided after monthV till 1 found 
tliat seven years. of the first ten had vanished, and le| noth- 
ing behind them. 

9 ** I now postTK>ned my purpose of travelling : for why 
should I go abroacL while so much remained to be learned at 
home ? limraurea myself for four years, and studied the 
laws ol'the empire. The famo of my skill reached tlie judges ; 

Qiap. 9 PromiKwm$ Piee€$^ 14$ 

i was found abW to speak upon doutxtful miMtiont ; and waa 
commanded to stand at the footstool or the calif. I was 
h^ard with attention ; I was consulted with eoo^denoe ; and 
the love of praise fastened on my heart. 

1 Q ^^ I still wished to see distant countries : listaaed with rap- 
ture to the relations of travellers ) and resolved aome time to 
ask my dismission, that I might feast my soul with Doveky 3 
but my presence was always necessary ; and the stream of 
business hurried me along. Sometimes I was afraid lest I 
should be charged with ingratitude : but 1 still proposed to 
travel, and therefore would not confine myself by marriage. 

1 1 ^ In my fiftieth year, I began to suspect that the time of 
travelling was past ; and thought it best to lav hold on tne 
felicity yet in my power, and indulge myself in domestic 
pleasures. But at fifty no man easily finds a woman bcauti* 
ful as the Houries, and wise as Zobeide. I inquired and re* 

jected, consulted and deliberated, till the sixty-second year 
lOiide me ashamed of wishing to marry. I had now notiUDg 
left but retirement ; and for retirement I never found a time, 
till disease ^rced me from public employment 

12 ^ Such was my scheme, and such has been its conse- 
quence. With an insatiable thirst for knowledge, I trifled 
away the yftars of improvement ; witiva restless desire of see- 
ing (iifiereat countries, I ha^e always resided in the same 
«ity ; with the highest expectation of connubial felicity,! havs 
lived unmarried ; and with unalterable resolutions of contem- 
plative retirement, I am going to die within the walls of Baf*' 

dat." DR. JOHNSON. 


Tktpleasnrts ofvuiuousMnmhiliN, 

TU£ good effects of true sensibility, on general virtue and 
happiness, admit of no dispute. Let us consider its 
elfect on the happiness of him who possesses it, and the va- 
rious pleasures to which it gives him access. If he is master 
of riclies or influence, it affords him the means of increasing 
his own enjoyment, by relieving the wants, or increasing the 
comforts of others. If he commands not these advantage-s, 
;)'et all the comforts which he sees in the possession of the 
deserviuj^^, become in some sort his, by his rejoicfng in the 
^oud xvhidi thev enjoy. 

2 Even the tuee of nature, yields a satisfaction to him* 
w h ich the iosen^ble can never know. The profusion of good- 
nnwiy which he behokls poured forth on the universe, (ulatjaft 
his h^art with the thought, tfaationumerAble mult^des aroiuid 
him, ar4t blest and happy. When bs tees tbt. Wwm of aaajT 


^ / 

144 The EngUsh Reader. Part 1 . 

appeanng to proiper, and views a country flourishing^ m 
wealth and tndivtrjr ; when he beholds the spring cominf 
forth in hs beautir, and reviving the decayed face of nature ; 
or in autunm, beholds the fields loaded with plenty, and the 
year crowned with all its fruits : he lifts his affections with 

g-atitude to the great Father of all, and rejoices in the general 

5 U maymdeKl be objected, that the sanoe sensibility lavv 
o^n the heart to be pierced with many wounds, fr6m tne 
distresses which abound in the worid ; exposes us to frequent 
suffering from the participation which it communicates of the 
sorrows, as well as of the joys of friendship. But let it be 
eonsidered, that the tender melancholy of sympathy, is ac- 
companied with a sensation, which tney wno reel it would 
not exchange for the gratifications of the selfish. When the 
heart is strongly moved by any of the kind affections, even 
when it pours itself forth in virtuous sorrow, a secret at- 
tractive charxn mingles with the painful emotion ; there is a 
joy in the midst of grief. 

4 Let it be fiuther considered, that the griefs wluch sensi- 
bility introduces, are counterbalanced by pleasures which flow 
flrom the same source. Sensibility heightens in general the 
human powers, and is^onnected witii acuteness in all our 
leeHngs. If it makes us more alive to some painful sensations, 
in retuin, it renders the pleasing onesmore vivid and animated. 

5 The selfish man, languishes in his narrow circle of pleas- 
tMps. They are confined to what affects his own interest. 
He is obli^d to repeat the same gratifications, till they be- 
come insipid. But the man of virtuous sensibility, moves in 
a wider sphere of felicity. His powers are mucn more fre- 
quently called forth into occupations of pleasing activity. — 
Mumberless occasions open to him of indulging his favourite 
taste, by conveying satisfaction to others. Often it is in his 
power, in one way or other, to sooth the afflicted heart, to 
carry some consolation into the house of wo. 

6 III the scenes of ordinary life^ in the domestic and social 
intercourses of men, the cordiality of his affections cheers and 
gladdens him. Every appearance, every description of in- 
nocent happiness, is enjoyed by him. Every native ex- 
presaion of kindness, and affection among others, is felt by 
mm, even though he be not the object of it. In a circle of 
friends enjoying one an<>Tier. he is us happy as the happiest 

.7 in a word, he lives in a different sort or world, from that 
which the selfish man InhabitB. He possesses a new sense that 
enables him to behold objects which the selfish cannot see. At 
the same lime, bit eojoyaievte art not of that kind which 


c4op. 0. PromitcuouB Pieces, 14& 

remain merely on th^ surface of the mind. They pen^tfato 
the hi«art. They enlar{;e and elevate, they refine and enno- 
ble it To all the pleasing emotions of affection, they add the 
dignified consciousness oT yirtue. 

8 Children of men ! men formed by nature to live and td 
feel as brethren ! how long \\ill ye continue to estrange your- 
selves from one another by competitions and jealousies 
-when in cordial union ye mij^ht be so much more blest ? How 
long wiU ye seek your nappmess in selfish gratifications alone^ 
neglacting those purer ana better sources, of joy, which floW 
from the affections and the heart ? blaiiu 

On (he true honour of man, 

THEproperhonour of man arises not from some of those 
splendid actions and abilities, which excite high admira- 
tion. Courage and prowess, military renown, signal victories 
and conquests, may render tne name of a man ramous, with- 
out rendering his cnaracter truly honourable. To many brava 
men, to many hero'js renowned in story, we look up with 
wonder. Thei** t' rSits are recorded. Their praises are 
aun|9. They stai a j on an eminence, above the rest of man- 
kind. Their eminc ice, nevertheless, may not be of that sort, 
6efore which we bow with inward esteem and res|>ect. Some- 
thmg more is wanted for that purpose, than the conquerin|^ 
arm, and the intrepid mind. 

S The laurels of the warrior must at all times be dyed in 
blood, and bedewed with the tears of the widow and the or- 
phan. But if they have been stained by rapine and inhumani- 
ty ; if sordid avarice has marked his character ; or low and 
gross sensuality has degraded his life ; the great hero sinks into 
a littie man. What, at a distance, or on a superficial view, we 
admired, becomes mean, perhaps odious, wnen we examina 
it mure closely. It is tike tne C oiossal statu^ whose immense 
sisc struck the spectator afar ofi*with astonishment ; but when 
nearly viewed, it appears disproportioned, unshapely, and 

9 Observations of the same kind may be applied to all the 
reputation derived from civil accomplishments ; from the re- 
fined politics of the statesman, or tne literary efforts of gen*- 
ius and'einidition. These bestow, and within certain boundf 
ought to bestow, eminence and distinction on men. They 
discover^lents which in themselves are shining ; and whica 
becomeNiighly valuable, w^hen employed in advancing the 
good of iinankiDd. Heoee, they frequently pva riae to taam 


140 fte EngUsh Reader, Paril. 

But a distlnctkiD te to be made between fame and true honour. 

4 The statesman, the orator, or the poet, may be fiunous ; 
while yet the man himself is far from being honoured. We 
envy nis abilities. We wish to rival them. But we would 
not choose to be classed with him who possesses them. In- 
stances of this sort are too often found in every record of an- 
deqt or modem history. 

5 From all this it follows, that in order to discern where man's 
true honour lies, we must look, not to any adventitious cir- 
cumstances of fortune ; not to any single sparkling ouality ; 
but to the whole of what forms a man ; what entitle mm, as 
such, to rank high among that class of beings to which he 
belongs ; in a word, we must look to the mind and the soul. 

6 A mind superior to fear, to selfish interest and corruption; 
a mind governed by the principles of uniform recdtuae and 
integrity ; the same in prospenty and adversity ; which no 
bribe caa seduce, nor terror overawe; neither by pleasure 
melted into effeminacy, nor by distress sunk into dejection : 
such Is the mind which forms the distinction and eminence 
of man. 

7 One who, in no situation of life, is either ashamed or afraid 
of discharging his duty, and acting his proper part withfirm- 
aess and constancy ; true to the Croa whom he worships, 
amitrue to the faith in which he professes to believe : full of af- 
fedaon to his brethren of mankind; faithful to his friends, geo- 
iMtMis to his enemies, warm with compassion to the unfortu- 
nate ; aeJMenying to littie private interests and pleasures, but 
aealous for pubiS interest and happiness ; magnanimous, 
without being proud ; humble, without being mean ; just, 
without being harsh ; simple in his manners, but numly in 
his feefiogs ; on whose wor4l we can entirely rely ; whose 
^onleoanoe never deceives us ; whose professions of kind- 
ness are the efiusioos of his heart : one, m fine, whom, inde- 
pendentiy of any views of advantage, we should choose for a 
superioii eould trust in as a friend, and oouki love as a brother 
— thSs is the man^wfaom, in our heart, above all others, we 
do, we must honour. BUiiit. 

SBonoN xm. 

The iif^0iimtC0 ofdevoUon on ike happineai of Ufk, 

WIATBYER promotes and strengthens virtue, what- 
ever eahm and vegalates the temper, is a source of hap- 
ptoess. pevotion produces these eSuBta in a remarkable de- 
** imfHres composure of spirit^ mildness, and bemgnity^ 
twe paiofc* wid cbenshes the pkaskig emotions ; 

Ckap, 9- Promiseuoui Pieces, 147 

and, by th«M means, carries on the life of a piooi man m ^ 
smootn and placid tenour. 

2 Besides exerting this habitual influence on the mind, de» 
votion opens a field of jenjoyments, to which the vicious art 
entire strangers ; enjoyments the more valuable, as they pecul 
iarly belong to retirement, when the world leaves us ; an 
to adversity, when it becomes our foe. These are the two 
seasons, for which every wise man would most wish to pro- 
vidt^ some hidden store of comfort. 

3 For let him be placed in the most favourable situation 
which the human state admits, the world can neither always 
amuse him, nor always shield him from distress. There will 
be many hours of vacuity, and many of dejection, in his life. 
If he be a stranger to God, and to devotion, how dreary will the 
gloom of solitude often prove ! With what oppressive weight 
will sickness, disappointment, or old age, fall upon his spirits! 

4 But for those pensive periods, the pious man has a relief 
prepared. From the tiresome repetition of the common van- 
ities of life, or from the painful corrosion of its cares and sor- 
rows, devotion transports him into a new re^on ; and^ sur* 
rounds him there with such objects, as are.the most fitted to 
cheer the dejection, to calm the tumults, and to heal the 
wounds of his heart. 

5 If the world has been empty and delusive, it gladdens 
him with the prospect of a hieher and better order of thin^ 
about to arise. If men haveoeen unsrateful and base, it dis- 
plays before him the faithfulness of that Supreme Beinj^ 
who, though every other friend fail, will never forsake him. 

6 Let us consult our experience, and we shall find, that the 
two greatest sources of inward joy, are, the exercise of love 
directed towards a deserving object, and the exercise of hope 
terminating on some high and assured happiness. Both these 
are supplied by devotion ; and therefore we have no reason 
to be surprised, if, on some occasions, it fills the hearts of good 
men with a satisfaction not to be expressed. 

7 Tile refined pleasures of a pious mind are, in many res- 
pects, superior to the coarse gratifications of sense. They 
}irc pleasures which belong to the highest powers and best af- 
fections of tlie soul ; whereiis the gratifications of sense reside 
in the lowest region of our nature. To the latter, the soul 
strtops below its native dignity. The former, raise it above 
itself. The latter, leave always a comforUess, often a mort>- 
fytiig, remembrance behind them. The former, are reviewed 
with applause and delieht. 

8 The pleasures of sense resemble a foaming torrent, 
wbicb« after a disorderly course soeedilv runs oul« and tevsii 

148 ' The BnglUk Rettder. PaK/l«> 

Ma empty and oflbneive channel. But the pleasures ofdem^ 
tloD resemble the equable eurrent of a pure river, which eo 
hrens the fields through which it passes, and diffuses verdure 
and fertility alone its oanks. 

B To thee, O t)evdtion ! we owe the highest improvement 
of our nature, and much of the enjoyment of our life. Thou 
art the support of our virtue, and the rest of our souls, in this 
turbulent world. Thou composest the thouahts. Thoucalm- 
^t the passions. Thou exaltest the heart Thy communic^' 
tiors, and thifie only, are imparted to the low, no less than to 
the high ; to the poor, as well as to the rich. 

10 in thy presence, worldly distinctions cease ; and under 
thy influence, worldly sorrows are forgotten. Thou art the 
balm of the woundea mind. Thy sanctuary is ever open to 
the miserable ; inaccessible only to the unrighteous and 
unpure. Tiiou beginnest on earth the temper of heaven. — 
Tn thee, the hosts of angels and blessed spirits eternally re- 
ioice. BifAia. 


The planetaty and Umstriai toorlda cmnparaiivdy considered, 

renO us, who dwell on its surface, the earth is by far the 
X. most extensive orb that our eyes can any where behold : 
it is also clothec^ with verdure, ^aistineuished by trees, and 
adorned with a variety of beautiful decorations ; whereas, 
to a spectator placed on one of the planets, it wears a uniform 
aspect; looks all luminous; and po larger than a spot. To be- 
ings who dwell at still greater distances, it entirely disappears. 

2 That which we call alternately the mornmg and the 
evening star, (as in one part of the orbit she rides foremost in 
the procession of night, in the other ushers in and anticipates 
the dawn.) is a planetary world. This planet, and the four 
others that so wonderfully varjr their mystic dance, are in 
themselves dark bodies, and shine only by reflection ; have 
fields, and seas, and skies of their own ; are furnished with all 
accommodations for animal subsistence^ and are supposed to be 
the abodes of intellectual life ; all which, together with our 
earthly habitation, are dependent on that ^and dispenser of 
Divine munificence, the sun >; receive their light from the 
distribution of his rays, and derive their comfort from his 
benign agency. 

8 The sun, which seems to perform Its daily stages through 
the sky, is, in this respect, fixtjd, and immoveable: it is the 
great axle of heaven about which the globe we inhabit, and 
other more spacious orbs, wneel their stated courses. The 
suu, though seemiugly smaller than tiie dial it illuoiui- 

9 • PrwiiMcuauu Pieces 149 


. is more taan a million times larger than this wtiole earth, 
on which ao poany lofty mountains nat^^ and such vast oceans 
roll. A line extending from sid*^ to side through the centre of 
that resplendent orb, would measure more than eight hundred 
thousand miles: a girdle formed to go nnind its circiunference, 
^would reqiare a length of millions. Were its solid contents 
to be estmiated, the account would oyerwheJm our under- 
standing, and be almost beyond the power of language to ex- 
press. Are we startled at these reports of philosophy ! 

4 Are we ready to cry out m a transport of surprise, 
** How mighty is the Being who kindled so prodi^ous a fire ; 
and keeps alive, from age to age, so enormous a mass of 
flame!" let us attend our philosophical guides, and we shall 
be brought acquainted witn speculations more enlarged and 
more inflaming. 

5 This sun, wifh all its'attendant planets, is but a very little 
part of the grand machine of the universe : every star, tnough 
in appearance no bigger tisan the diamond that flitters upon a 
lady^ ring, is really a vust globe, like the sim m size, and in 
glory ; no less spacious, no less luminous, than the radiant 
source of d^y. So that every star, is not barely a world, 
but the centre of a magnificent system; has a i^tinue of 
yvorlds, irradiated by its beams, and revolving round its at- 
tractive influence. aU which are lost to our sight in unmeas^ 
urable wilds of ether. 

6 That the stars appear like so many diminutive, and 
scarpel^r distinguishable points, is owine to their immense and 
inconobivable oistance. Inuneose ana inconceivable indeed 
it 18, since a ball, shot from the loaded cannon, and flying 
with unabated rapidity, must travel, at tliis imjietuous rate^ 
almost seven hundred thousand years, before it could reach 
the nearest of these twinkling luminaries. 

7 While, beholding this vast expanse, 1 learn my own ex- 
treme meanness, I would also discover the abject htttooefls of 
all terrestrial things. What is the earth, with all her osten- 
tatious scenes, compared with this astonishing grand furni- 
ture of the skies ? What, but a dim speck, hardfy peiveiva- 
ble in the map of the universe ? 

8 It is observed by a very judicious writer, that if the sum 
himself, which enlightens tins part of the creation, were ex- 
tinguished, and all the hostof planetary worlds, which movs 
about him, were annihilated, ttiey would not be missed by an 
eye that can take in the whole compass of nature, any more 
tnan a grsdn of sand upon the sea-shore. The bulk of which 
they consist, and the space which they occupy, are so exceed- 
ingly little is oomparison of the whole, that their km nmM 

190 The Engihh Readet . ^ Part U 

■earceiy leere a blank in the immensity of Godls woite. 
9 If then, not oar ^obe only, but thk whole system, be 
8o Tery diminative. what is a kingdom, or a country? 
What are a few lordships, or the so much admired patrimo- 
nies of those who are styled wealthy ? When I measure them 
with my own little pittance, they swell kito proud and bloa* 
ted dimensions : but when I take the universe for my stand- 
ard, how scanty is their viae ! bow contemptible their figure! 
They shrink into pompous nothings. Aonisoff . 

On thspoufer qfcudom, and the vses to tohich it may he applied* 

THERE is not a common saying, which has a better turn 
of sense in it, than what we often hear in the mouths of 
the vulgar, that "Custom i^a second nature." It is indeed able • 
^oform the man anew ; and give him inclinations and capa- 
cities altogether oili'erent from those he was born with. 
V % A person who is addicted to play or gaming, though he took 
Imt little delight in it at first, by degrees contracts so strong an 
inclination towm-ds it, and gives himself up so entirely to it, 
that it seems the only end of his being. The love of a retir- 
ed or busy life will grow upon a man insensibly, as he is con- 
versant in the one or the other, till he is utterlj^ unqualified 
for relishing that to whicii he has been for sometime disused. 

3 Nay, a man may smoke, or drink, or take snuff*, till he is 
unable to pass away his time without it ; not to mention how 
our delight in any particular study, art, or science, rise* ano 
improves, in proportion to the application which we bestow 
upon it Thus, what was at first an exercise, becomes at 
length an entertainment. Our employments are changed in- 
to diversions. The mind grows fond of those actions it is 
accustomed to ; and is drawn with reluctancy from those 
paths in which it has been used to walk. 

4 If we attentively consider this property of human nature. 
It may instruct us in very fine moralities. In the first place, I 
would have no man discouraged with that kind of life, or se- 
ries of action, in which the choice of others, or his ovm neces- 
sities, may have engaged him. It may perhaps be very disa- 
greeable to him, at first ; but use and application will certainly 
render it not only less painful, but pleasing and satisfactory. 

5 In the second place, I would recommend to every one, 
the admirable precept, which Pythagoras is said to have given 
to his disciples, and which that philosopher must have drawn 
from .the observation I have enlarged upon :" Pitch upon 
that course of life which is the most excdlent, and custom 
—'" readarittiie most dttlightfuL" 


Ckap*9» PromUeuow Piece$. 151 

6 Men, whose circumstancef will permit them to choose 
their own way of life, are bexcuaable ifthev do not pursue 
that which their judgment tells them is the most iiiudahle. — 
The voice of reason is more to be regarded, than the btMit of 
any present inclination : since, by the rule above mentiunt^d, 
inclination will at length come over to reason, though w« caii 
never force reason to comply with inclination. 

7 In the third place, this observation may teach the most 
Sensual and irreligious man, to overlook those hardsbipfl ntid 
difficulties, which are apt to discourage him from tlie prose- 
cution of a virtuous life. •* The gods," said Hesiod, *' havi*. 
placed lab ur before virtue ; the way to her is at first roii;rK 
and difficult, but grows more smooth and easy the farlhcr w» 
advance in it." The man wlio procc;eds in it with stcadi'.icKS 
and resolution, will, in a little time, fiiMl ih'M. ^'hiM* ways are 
ways of pleasantness, and that all herpatiis are pvact'." 

8 To enforce this consideration, we may furlhiT observe, 
that the practice of rdi^^ion will not onlylw iittendtd with 
that pleasure which naturally accompanies tiionti act ioifs to 
which we arc huhituatrd, but with those supernunnirary joye 
of heart, that rise from the consciousness of such a pleasure ; 
from the satisfaction of acting up to tlie dicUites oi' reason 
and from the prospect of a happy immortality. 

9 In ihe fourth place, we may learn from tliis observation 
which we have made on the mind of man, to take naiticuia: 
care, when we are once settled in a regular coui*se ot life, how 
we too frequently indulge ourselves in even tlie most innociuit 
diversions and entertainments ; since the mind may insensi- 
bly fall off from the relish of virtuous actions, and by de- 
grees, exchange that pleasure which it takes in the perform- 
ance of its duty, for delights of a much infi'rior and an un- 
profitable nature. 

10 The last use which I shall make of this remarkabU^ prop- 
erty ill human nature, of being delighted with those actions to 
which it is aceustomed, is, to show how absolutely necessary 
it is for us to gain habits of virtui* in this life, if we would erijuv 
the pleasures of the next. The state of bliss we call hiiaveu, 
will not he capable of affecting those minds which are n<»t 
thus qualified for it : we must, m this world, {rain a n^iish for 
truth and virtue, if we would be able to taste that knowledj^ts 
and perfection, which are to make us happy in the n<'xt The 
seeds of those spiritual joys and ra])tures, which are to rise 
up and flourish in the soul^ to all eternity, must be planted in 
it during this its present state of probation. In short, heaven 
is not to be looked upon only as the reward, but as the n.itu- 
lal effect of a religioiie life. a^upisov 

152 ne English Reader. Pari 1. 

The pleasures resulUngfrom a proper use ofourfaadties, 

HAPPY that man, who, unembarrassed by vulgar cares, 
ma»ter of himself* his time, and fortune, spends his 
time in making himself wiser ; and his fortune, in making 
others (and merefore himself) happier : who, as the will 
and understanding, are the two ennooling faculties of the soul, 
thinks himself not complete, till his understanding is beautiiiea 
with the valuable furniture of knowledge, as well as his will 
enriched with every virtue ; who has furnished himself with 
all the advantages to relish solitude, and enliven conversa- 
tion ; who, when serious, is not sullen ; and when cheerful, 
not indiscreetly gay ; whose ambition is, not to be admired 
for a false glare ot greatness, but to 'be beloved for the gentle 
and sober lustre of his wisdom and goodness. 

S The greatest minister of stale, has not more business to 
do, in a public ciipacity, than he, and indeed every other 
man, may find in the retired and still scenes of life. Even 
in his private walks, every thing that is visible, convinces 
him there is present a Be^ng invisible. Aided by natural 
philosophy, he reads plain, legible traces of the Divinity, in 
every thing he meets : he sees the Deity in every tree, as 
well as Moses did in the burning bush, though not in so glar- 
ing a manner : and when he sees him, he adores him with 
the tribute of a grateful heart seed. 


Description of candour, 

TRUE candour is altogether different from that guarded, 
inoffensive language, and that studied openness of be- 
haviour, which we so fi*equently meet with among men of 
the world. Smiling, very often, is the aspect, and smooth 
are the words of those, who, inwardly, are the most ready 
to think evil of others. That candour which is a Christian 
virtue, consists, not in fairness of speech, but in fairness of 

2 It may want the blandishment of external courtesy, but 
supplies its place with a humane and generous liberal]^ of 
sentiment Its manners are unaffected, audits professions 
cordial. Exempt, on one hand, from tne dark jealousy of 
a suspicious mind, it is no less removed, on the other, from 
that easy credulity which is imposed on by every specious pre- 
tence. It is perfectly consistent with extensive knowledge 
of the world, and with due attention to our own safety. 

5 In that various intercourse, nrhich we are obliged to carry 
•D with persona of every different character, suspicioiii 

to a certain degre^ is a necessary guard. It » only when it 
exceeds the hounds of prudent caution, that it degenerates 
into vice. There is a proper mean between undistinguished 
credulity, and universal jealousy, which a sound understand- 
ing discerns, and which the man of candour studies to pre- 

4 He makes ajbwunce for the mixture of «yi] with good, 
which is to he found in every human character. He ex 
pec^ none to be faultless ; and he is unwilling to believe that 
there is any without some commendable qualities. In the 
midst of many defects, he can discover a virtue. Under 
the influence ot personal resentment, he can be just to the 
merit of an enemy. 

5 He never lends an open ear to those defanuitory reports, 
and dark suggestions, which, amonf^ the tribes of the censo 
riouRy circulate with so much rapidity, and meet with so 
ready acceptance* He is not hasty to judge ; and he requires 
fuJ] evidence before he will condemn. 

6 As long as an action can be ascribed to different mo* 
tives, he holds it as no mark of sagacity to impute it always to < 
the worst Where there is just ground for doubt, he keeps 
his judgment undecided ; and, during the period of 8U8« 
pense, leans to the most charitable construction which an 

' action can bear. When he must condenvn, he condemns 
with regret ; and without those aggravations which the se- 
verity of others adds to the crime. He listens calmly to the 
apolo^ of the offender, and readily admits every extenua- 
ting circumstance, which equity can suggest. 

7 How much soever he may blame uie principles of any 
sect or party, he never confounds, under one general censure, 
all who belong to that par^ or sect. He charges them not 
with such consequences of their tenets, as they refuse and 
disavow. From one wrong opinion, he does not infer the 
subversion uf all sound principles ; nor from one bad action, 
conclude that all regard to conscience is overthrown. 

8 When he " henolds the mote in his brother's eye," he 
* '.members ** the beam in his own." He commiserates hu- 
iniui frailtv ; and judges of others according to the principles, 
by which ho would think it reasonable that they should judgu 
of him. In a word, he views men and actions in the clear 
sunshine of charity and good nature ; and not in that dark 
and sullen shade which jealousy and party-spirit throw over 
all cliaractcra. blais* 


IM 2Xe Itngmk Reati^ Pari 1. 

SECTION xvra. 

On Oie xmperfedion of ihtU happiness which rtsis soldy on 

woHdhf pleaswes. 

THE vanity of hutnao pleasures, is a topic which might be 
embellisned with the. pomp of itauch description. Bi.t 
I shall studiotisljr avoid exaggeration, and only point out a 
threofuld vanity m human life, which every impartial obser- 
ver cannot but admit ; disappointment in pursuit, dissatisfac- 
tion in enjoyment, uncertainty in possession. 

S First, disappointment in pursuit When we look around 
us on the world, we every where behold a busy multitude, 
intent on the prosecution of various designs, which their 
wants or desires have suggested. We behold mem employ- 
ing every method which ingenuity can devise ; some the pa- 
tience or industry, some the boldness of enterprise, others the 
dexterity of stratagem, in order to compass tneir ends. 

S Of this incessant stir and activity^ what is the fruit ? in 
comparison of the crowd who have toiled in vain, how small 
is the number of the successful ? Or rather, where is the man 
who will declare, that in every point he has completed his 
plan, and attained his utmost wish ? 

4 No extent of human abilities has been able to discover a 
path which, in any line of life, leads unerringly to success. 
'^The race is not always to the swift, nor the battie to the 
ptrong, nor riches to men of understanding." We may form 
oiu* plans with the most profound sagacity, and with the most 
vigilant caution may guard against dangers on every side. 
But some unforeseen occurrence comes across, which nafflei 
our wisdom, and lays our labours in the dust 

5 Were such disappointments confined to those who as- 
pire at engrossing the higher departments of life, the misfor- 
tude would be less. The humiliation of the mighty, and the 
fall of ambition from its towering height, littie concern the 
bulk of mankind. These are objects on which, as on distant 
meteors, they gaze from afar, without drawing personal in- 
struction from events so much above them. 

6 But, alas ! when we descend into the regions of private 
life, we find disappointment and blasted hope equally preva- 
lent there. Neither the moderation of our views, nor .the 
justice of our pretensions, can ensure success. But ''time 
and chance happen to all" Against the stream of events, both 
the worthy and the undeservihg are obliged to struggle ; and 
both are frequentiy overborne alike by the current 

7 Besides disappointment in pursiut, dissatisfaction 1b 
•i^oyraent ii a (aithtf vanity, to whicli th« humia state w 


Chwp. 9« PromiseuouM Ptece*. 15f 

mihject This is the severest of All mortifloAtions; after havinf 
lM*en sucressrul in the pursuit, to be baffled in the enjoy meiS 
Itself! Yet this is found to be an evil still more general than 
the former. Some may be so fortunate as to attain what 
they have pursued ; but none are rendered completely happy 
by what Ui»?y have attained. 

8 Disappointed hope is misery ; and yet successftil hope ii 
only inoperfect bliss. Look through all the ranks of man* 
kind. Examine the condition of those who appear most 
prosperous ; and you will find that they are never just what 
they desire to be. If retired, they lan^sh for action ; if bu« 
sy,they complain of fatigue, liin middle life^ they are im* 
patient for distinction ; if in high stations, they sieh after free- 
dom and ease. Something is still wanting to tnat plenitude 
of satisfaction, which they expected to acquire. Together 
with every wish that is gratified, a new demand arises. One 
void opens in the heart, as another 'ia filled. On wishes, 
wishes grow ; and to the end, it is rather the expectation ol 
what they have not, than the enjoyment of what they have^ 
which occupies and interests the most successful. 

9 This aissutisfaction in the mid^t of human pleasure* 
springs partly from the nature of our enjoyments themselves, 
and partly^ iiom circumstances which corrupt them. No 
worldly enjoyments are adejjuatetothe high desires and pow- 
ers of an immortal spirit. Fancy paints them at a distance 
with splendid colours ; but possession unveils the fallacy. The 
eagerness of passion bestows upon them, at first, a bnsk and 
lively relish. But it is thieir fate alwa;^s to pall by familiari- 
ty, and sometimes to pass from satiety into oisgust. 

10 UappY would tne poor man think himself, if he could 
enter on all the treasures of the rich ;' and happy for a short time 
he might be : but before he had long contemplated and admired 
bis state, his possessions would seem to lessen, and his caree 
would grow. 

1 1 Add to the unsatisfying nature of our pleasures, the at- 
tending circumstances which never fhll to corrupt them. 
For such as they are, they are at no time possessed unmixed. 
To human lips it is not given to taste the cup of pure joy. 
When externa] circumstances show fairest to the world, the 
envied man groans in private under bis own burden. Some 
vexiftion disquiets, some passion corrodes him ; some distress, 
either felt or feared, gnaws like a wonxi, the root of his felici- 
ty. When there is nothing from without to disturb the 

Srosperous, a secret poison o)>erates within. For worldly 
appiness ever tends to destroy itself, by con'upting the heart 
It fofters the loose and the violent paaaiona. IteofieadeMi 


156 The English Reader. Pari I 

Boxious habits ; and taints the mind witt; false delicacj,. which 
makes it feel a thousand unreal evils. / 

It But put the case in the moat favourable li^ht Laj 
Mide from human pleasures both disappointment m pursuit^ 
Und deceitfulness in enjoyment ; suppose them to be tully at- 
tainable, and completely satisfattory ; still there remains to 
be considered the vanity of uncertain possession and short 
duration. Were there m worldly things any fixed point df 
security which we could gain, the mind would then have 
•(Mxie wisis oil which to rest. 

' 13 But our condition is such, that every thing wavers 
and totters around us, " Boast not thyself of to-morrow ; 
for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth." It is much 
if, during its course, thou hearest not of somewhat to disqui- 
et or alarm thee. For life never proceeds long in a uniform 
train. It is continually varied by unexpected events, 
• 14 The seeds of alteration are every where sown ; and the 
sunshine of prosperity conunonly accelerates their growth. 
If our enjoyments are numerous, we lie more open on aifTerent 
sides to be wounded. If we have possessed them long, we 
have greater cause to dread an approaching change. By slow 
degrees prosperity rises ; but rapid is the progress of evil. It 
requires no preparation to bring it forward. 

1& The edifice which it cost much time and labour to 
srect, one inauspicious event, one sudden blow, can level with 
the dust. Even supposing the accidents of life to leave us 
untouched, human Dliss must still be transitory ; for man 
changes of himself. No course of enjoyment can delight ut 
lorig^ What amused our youth, loses its charm in maturer age 
As years advance, our powers are blunted, and our pleasura- 
ble feelings decline. 

16 The sifent lapse of time is evercarrying somewhat from 
tts, till at length the period comes, when all must be swept 
away. The prospect of this termination of our labours and 
pursuits, is sufficient to mark our state with vani^. ^ Our 
days are a hand's breadth, and our age is as nothing.*'' With- 
in that little space i« all our »»nterprise bounded. We crowd 
it with toils and cares, vnlh contention and strife. We project 
great designs, entertain high hopes, and then leave our plans 
unfinished, and sink into oblivion. 

17 This much let it suffice to have said concerning the vanity 
of the world. That too much has not been said, must appear 
to every one who considers how generally mankina lean 
to the opposite side ; and how often, by undue attachment to 
the present state, they both feed the most sinful passions, and 
^pierot tiMnselvat throu^ with many sorrows " ma 


What are the real and mUid enjoymfinU of human Itfe, 

IT must be admitted, that unmixed and complete happi- 
ness, is unknown on earth. No retaliation of conduct can 
altOKetber prevent passions from disturbing our -peace, and 
mistortunes from wounding our heart. But after this con- 
cession is made, will it follow, that there is no object on earth 
which deserres our pursuit, or that all enjoyment becomes 
contemptible which is not perfect ? Let us survey our statci 
with an unpartial eye, and be just to the various f^ifts of Heaven* 

2 How vain soever this life^ considered in itself, may be^ 
the comforts and hopes of rf iigioh, are sufficient to give so- 
fidity to the enjoyments of the righteous. In the exercise of 
^ood affections, and the testinv )ny of an approving conscience; 
m tiie sense of peace and reconciliation with God, through 
the great Redeemer of mankind ; in the firm confidence of 
being conducted through all the trials of life, by infinite Wis* 
dom and Goodness ; and in the joyful prospect of arriying, 
in the end, at immortal felicity ; they possess a happiness 
which, descending from a purer and more perfect region than 
this world, partakes not of its vanity. 

3 Besides the enjoyments peculiar t6 religion, there artt 
other pleasures of our present state, which, though of an in- 
feriororder, must not be overl«:>oked in the estimate of human 
life. It is necessary to call the attention to these, in order 
to check that repinuig and unthankful spirit, to which man is 
always too prone. 

4 Some degree of importance must be allowed to the com- 
forts of health^ to the innocent gratifications of sense, and to 
the entertainment afforded us by all the beautiful scenes of 
nature j some to the pursuits and harnnless amusements of 
social life; and more to the internal emoyments of thought 
and reflection, and to the pleasures of affectionate intercourse 
with those whom we love. These comforts are often held in 
too low estimation, naerely because they are ordinary ami 
common ; although that is the circumstance which ought, in 
reason, to enhance their value. They lie open, in some de- 
gree, to all; extend through every rank of life; and fiU up 
agreeably nuiny of those spacesin our present existence, which 
sre not occupied with higher objects, or with serious cares. 

5 From this representation, it appears that, notwithstand- 
Qg the vanity of the world, a considerable degi*ee of comfort 
fl attainiible in the present state. Liet the recollection of this 
Krve to reconcile us to our condition, and to repress tho 
urrogance of complaints and murmurs* — What art thou. 
3 SOD Af man! woo, having sfirung but yesterday Mit •! 



153 TTie Engli$h Reader- Pari I. 

the diist, darestto lift up thj voice .against thy Maken and 
to arraign his providence, because all things are not ordered 
according to thy wish ? , 

6 What title hast thou to find fault with the order of the 
univeise, whose lot is so much beyond what thy virtue or 
merit gave thee ground to claim ! Is it nothing to thee to 
have been introduced inio this magnificent world ; to have 
been admitted as a spectator of the Divine wisdom and 
works ; and to have nad adcess to all the comforts which 
nature, with a bountiful hand, has poured forth around thee? 
Are all tfie hours forgotten which thou hast passed in ease, 
in complacency, or joy ? 

7 Is it a small favour in thy eyes, that the hand of Divine 
Mercy has been stretched forth to aid thee ; and, if thou re- 
ject not its proffered assistance, is ready to conduct thee to a 
nappier state of existence ? V( hen thou comparest tiby con* 
dition with thy desert, blush and be ashamed of thy com^ 
plaints. Be silent, be grateful, and adore. Receive with thank- 
fulness the blessings which are allowed thee. Revere that 
government which at present refuses thee more. Rest in this 
conclusion, that though there are evils in the world, its Crea- 
tor is wise, and good, and has been bountiful to thee, blair. 


Scale of beings. 

THOUGS there is a CTcat deal of pleasure in contempts: 
tin^ the material world ; by which I mean, that system o' 
bodies, mto which nature has so curiously wrought me mas' 
of dead matter, with the several relations that those bodie^ 
bear to one another ; there is still, methinks, something more 
wonderful and surprising, in contemplations on the world of 
life ; by which I intend, all those animals with which evenr part 
of the universe is furnished. The material world is only the 
shell of the universe . the world of life are its inhabitants. 

^ If we consider .those parts of the material world, which lie 
the nearest to us^ and are therefore subject to our observation, 
and inauiries, it is amazing to consider the infinity of animals 
with wnich they are stocked. Every part of matter is peo- 
pled ; ever^ green leaf swarms with inhabitants. There is 
scarcely a single humour in the body of a man, or of any 
other animal, in which our glasses do not discover myriads 
of living creatures. We find, even in the most solid bodies, 
as in nArble itself, innumerable cells and cavities, which are 
orowded with, imperceptible inhabitants, too little for the oar 
ked eye to discover. 

3 On the other hand, if we look into the more bulky parts 
ef nature, we see the seas, lakes, and rivers^ taemiog with 

CA«Ep. p. PromUrtMMM Piecet, 159 

numbeHeM Idndii of iivin^ creatures. We And ererj monn- 
tain and marsh, wilderni'ss and wood, pientiftiny stocked 
with birds and be;ists ; and every part of matter afTordint 
proper necessaries and conveniences, for the livelihood of 
the multitudes which inhabit it 

4 The author of" th» Piurallty of Worlds," draws a v»rf 
good ar<^unient from this onsi deration, for the peopling of 
•very planet ; as indeed it seems very probable, from tk« 
analogy of reason, that if no part of matter, with which w* 
are acquainted, lies waste and useless, those great bodies 
which are at such adisUince from us, are not desert and un« 
peopled; but rather, tiiat they are furnished with beings 
adaptc^d to their res^Kxtive situations. 

5 Existence is a blessing to those beings only which are 
endowed with perception ; and is in a manner turown away 
upon dead matter, any farther than as it is subservient to b^ 
ings which are conscic»us of their existence. Accordingly we 
find, from the bodies which lie under our observation, that 
matter is only made as the basis and support of animals ; and 
that there is no more of the one than what is necessary foi 
the existence of the other. 

6 Infinite Goodness is of so communiu^Oe a nature, that it 
seems to delight in conferring existence upon every degree of 
perceptive being. As this is a speculation, w^h I have of- 
ten pursued with great pleasure to myself, I soBenlarge fiu>- 
ther upon it, by considering that part of the scale of MingSi 
which comes within our knowledge. 

7 There are some living creatures, which are raised but just 
above dead matter. To mention only that species of shell- 
fish, which is formed in the fashion of a cone ; that grows to 
the surface of several rocks ; and immediately dies, on being 
sev(»red from the place where it grew. There are many other 
creatures but one remove from these, which have no other 
sense than that of feeling and taste. Others have still an 
additional one of hearing ; others of smell ; and others of 

8 ft is wonderful to observe, by what a ^dual progress the 
world of life adranc's, through a prodipous variety of spe- 
cies, ' before a creature is formed, that is complete in all its 
senses : and even among these, there is such a different de- 
cree of perfection, in the sense which one animal cnioy^ be- 
yond what sppenrs in another, that though the sense millffer- 
erit animals is distinguished hy the same common denonina- 
tion, it seems rlmost of a diffiirent nature. 

9 If, after this« we look into the several inward perfectioni 
efeianmiiic and sagacity, or wiiat we generally caU initineti 

160 The JSngH^ Reader. Pari 1. 

weiind them rinng, after the same manner, imperceptibly one 
•boTe another ; and receiving additional improremeDts, ac- 
eording to the species in which they are implanted. This 
progress in nature is so very gradual, that the most perfect of 
an inferior species, comes v(>ry near to the most imperfect ol 
Chat which isimmcniiately above it 

10 The exuberant and overflowing iroodness of the Su- 
preme Being, whose mercy extends to ail his works, is plainly 
•een, as I have before hinted, in his havine made so very littiie 
matter, at least what faJls within our knowledge, that does not 
«warm with life. Nor is his goodness less seen in the diver 
sity, than in the multitude of living creatures. Had he 
made but one species of animals, none of the rest would have 
enjoyed the happiness of existence : he has, therefore, sped- 
fiekj m his creation, every degree of life, every capacity of 

11 The whole chasm of nature, from a plant to a man, is 
filled up with divers kind»of creatures, risini^ one afteran- 
other, hj an ascent so gentle and easy, that the httle transitions 
and deviations from one species to another, are almost insen- 
sible. This intermediate space is so well husbanded and man- 
aged, that there is scarcely a degree of perception, which does 
not appear in some one part of tne world of life. Is the good- 
ness, or thejjttsdom of the Divine Being, more manifested in 
this nis proAKling ? 

IS There is a consequence, besides those I have already 
jnentioned, which seems venr naturally deducible from the 
foregoing considerations. If the scale of being rises by so 
regular a progress, so hieh as man, we may, by parity of rea- 
son, suppose, that it still proceeds gradually through those 
bein^ which are, of a superior nature to him ; since there is 
infioitely greater space and room for differeift degrees of per- 
fection, between the Supreme Being and man, than between 
man and the most despicable insect 

13 In this ^reat system of being, there is no creature so 
wonderful in its nature, and which so much deserves our par- 
ticular attention, as man ; who fills up the middle space be- 
tween the animal and the intellectual nature, the visible and 
the invisible world ; and who is that link in the chain of be- 
hig, which forms the connexion between both. So that he 
who, in one respect, is associated with aneels and arcbaneds, 
and may look upon a bein^ of infinite perfection as his fatner, 
and the nighest order of spirits asf his brethren, may, in another 
respect, say to ^ corruption, thou art my father, and to the 
worm, thou art my mother and my sister." ▲owsosi 


ItVtiif in the care of Providence recommended. 

MAN, considered in himfelf^ is a very helpless* and a very 
wretched beini;. Be is subject eveiy mooieut to tk# 
^eatest calamities and misfortimes. He is beset with dsj>- 
.^prs on all sides ; and may become unhappy by numberles* 
^«asua]ties, which he could not foresee, nor nave prevented had 
.lie foreseen them. 

£ It is our comfort, while we are obnoxioud to so many ac- 
•-cidents, that we are under the care of one who directs con- 
tiogencies^ and has in hrs hands the management of every 
tUng that 18 capable of anuoying or offending us ; who knows 
the assistance we stand in need of^ anu^ls always ready to be- 
stow it on those who ask it of him. 

3 The natural homage, which such a creature owes to so 
. infinitely wise and good a Being, is a firm reliance oii him for 
. the Iflessings and conveniences of life ; and an habitual trust 

In him, for deliverance out of all such dangers and difficulties 
as may befal us. 

4 Tae man who always lives in this disposition of mind, has 
- not the same dark and melancholy v;ews of human nntura, 
' as he who considers himself abstractedly from this relation to 

the Supreme Being. At the same time that J^reflects upon 
bis own weakness and imperfection, he comft^Mhimself with 
tbe contemplation of those divine attributes^wliich are em- 
ployed fer his safetv, and his welfare. He finds his waort of 
Ibrnight madeI^^, oy the omniscience of him who i^ his sup- 
.port He is not sensible of his own want of strength, when 
tie knows that his helper is almighty. 

5 in short, the person who has a nrm trust in the Supreme 
Stmf, is powerful in his power, wise by bis wisdom, iiappy 
by his haooipess. He reaps the benefit of every divin«attri: 
bute; ana loses his own insufficiency in the fulness of infinite 
(perfection. To make our lives more easy to us, we are com- 
naDdodto put our trust in him, who is thus able to relieve 
•od succour us ; the Divine Goodness having made such a 
reliance a duty, notwithstanding we should iuive been misera- 
oie, had it been forbidden us. 

6 Among several motives, which might l>e made use of to 
recommend this duty to us, I shuU only take notice, of those 
Ihat follow. The first and stron;^st is, that we are promised, 
b» will not fail those who put their trust in him. But without 
considering the supernatural blessing, which accompanies 
ihis duty, we may observe, that it has a natural tendency to 
lii QfUi .rewai:!d; or in other wor^s, that thia firm tr^is^ pad 

tMI f%e BngiUk Rtader. Pmtl. 

cottfidenre fai the great Disposer of a)l things, contribute rerj 
much to the j^etting clear of any affliction, or to the bearing of 
it maafuUj. 

7 A person who belieres he has his succour at lianvL and 
tliat he acts in the si^ of his friend, of^n e'xerts himself be- 

E* liis abilities ; ana does wonders, that are not to be matched 
e who is not animated with such a confidence of success, 
in ^e assistance of an Almighty Being, naturally pro- 
duces patience, hope, cheerfulness, and all ouier dispositions 
of mind, which alleviate those calamities that we are not able 
to remove. 

8 The practice of this virtue administers great comfort to 
the mind of man, in times of poverty and affliction ; but 
most of all, in the hour of death. When the soul is hovering, 
in the last moments of its separation ; when it is just entering 
on another state of existence, to converse with scenes, and 
objects, and companions, that are altogether new ; whi^ can 
support her under such tremblings of tnought, such fear,%uch 
anuety, such apprehenaons, but the casting of all her cares 
upon HIM, who nrst save her being ; who has conducted her 
through one stage of it; and who will be always present, to 
(uide and comlbrther in her progress through eternity ? 



iy mid gratitude enliven profperiiy, 

PIETY, and gratitude to God, contribute, in a high degree, 
to enliven prosperity. Gratitude is a pleasing emotion. 
Tke sense of bemg distinguished by the kindness of another, 
gladdens the heart, warms it with reciprocal affection, aha 
ghres to any possession which is agreeanle in itself, a double 
refish, from its beine the gift of a fnend. Favours conferred 
by men, lacknowledge, mav prove burdensome. For human 
virtue is never perfect ; ana, sometimes unreasonable expect- 
ations on the one side, sometimes amortifying sense of de- 
pendence on the other, corrode in secret the pleasures of ben- 
efits, and convert the obligations of friendship into, grounds of 

S But nothing of this Kind can affect the intercourse of 
gratitude with Heaven. Its favours are wholly disinterested ; 
and with a gratitude the most cordiarandunsuspidous, a good 
man looks up to that Almiffhty Benefactor, who auns at no 
.end but the happiness of those whom lie blestfes, and who 
desires no return from them, but a devout and thankful heart 
While others can trace their prosperity to no higher seuret 
Iban a eoiieurrenoe of worldly causes ; audi oAen, itf 


Gft«p»9. PfOMdcif out ^Moef. IM 

xiMMi or trifiof^ mddtote, whkh oecaaibn^Uy fbTooffedtiMir 
desiflw ; with what aaperior tatisfactioii does the aervant ot 
God remark the hand of that gracious Power whicJi hath 
raised him up ; which hath happifty conducted him tfarouffh 
titevarioua steps of life, and crowned him with the most fa* 
▼oivahle disringtkm beyond his equals ? 

9 Let us farther consider, that not only gratitude for the 
past, but a cheering sense of divine ferour at the present, en* 
ten into the {hous emotion. They are only the virtuous, who 
an their prosperous days hear this voice addressed to them, 
^ Go thy way, eat thy bread with joy, and drink thy wine 
ivith a cheerful heart ; for God now accepteth thy woHcs.'' 
He who is the author of their prosperity, gives them a title to 
ttsjey, with complacency, his own gift. 

4 W hile bad men snatch the pleasures of the worid as by 
atffaJth, without countenance from the great Proprietor of 
the world,. the righteous sit openly down to the feast of life, 
voder the smile of approving neaven. No guilty fears damp 
their joys. The .blessing orOod rests upon all that they pos- 
■ese; hw protection surrounds them; and hence, ** in the 
habitations of the righteous, is found the voic« of rejoicin|!} 
and salvation." A lustre unknown to others, invests, in their 
sight^e whole foce of nature. 

5 Tfadr piety reflects a sunshine from heaven upon the 
prosperity of the worid ; unites in one point of vl^, thesmi- 
ik% aspect, both of the powers above, and of the objects be- 
low, riot only have they as full a relish as others, for the in- 
noeent pleasures of life, but, moreover, in these they hold 
eommunion with their divine Benefactor. In all that is good 
or &(lr, they trace his hand. From the beauties of nature, 
irom the improvements of art, from the enjoyments of social 
life, th^ raise their affection to the source of all the happiness 
which surrounds them; and thus widen the sphere of their 
pleasureSj by adding intellectual, and spiritual, to earthly joys. 

6 For illustration of what I have said on tius head, remark 
that ^eerful enjoyment of a prosperous state, which king 
David had when he wrote the twenty-third psalm ; and com- 
pare the highest pleasures of the riotous sinner, with the hap* 
ny and satimed spirit which breathes throughout that psalm. — 
In the.,mid8t of the splendour of royalty, with what amiable 
simplidty of gratitude does he look up to the Lord as ^ his 
Shepherd ;" happier in ascribing all his rjccess to Divine fa- 
vour, than to the policy of bis councils, or to the force of his 


f How many instances of divine goodness arose before 
bim:iia olMSiiiir vsmambnnce* when with such refolv h* 

ipcttks of the "gfeen pastures and tfiOl watem^ bmde 'VfMck 
dod bad led him ; of his cup which he had made t^ertsrikm ; 
and o£ the table which he had prepared for faim iq thepreeeDee 
of bis enemies 1" With what peif eet tranouillily does he look 
forward to the time of his passinf^ througn ^ thia raUey of the 
shadow of death ;" una^palled bj tliat spectre, wbose molt 
distant appearance blasts the prosperityof siODers ! He fears 
no evil, as long as ^* the rod and the dtaflr of his Divwie Sfaep* 
herd are^ with him ; and, through all* the unknown periods ol 
this and of future existence, commits himself to his gindaiiGe 
with secure and triumphant hope : '* Soreiy ffoodnesB and 
tnercY will follow me all the days of my firo; and i sitttt 
dwellin the house of the Lord for eyer." 

8 What a purified, sentimental enjoyment of prosperity » 
here exhibited ! How different from &at gross relish of worid- 
ly pleasures, which belongs to those who behold only the ter- 
restrial side of things ; who raise their views to no higher ob-> 
lects than the succession of human contingencies, and the> 
weak efforts of human ability ; who have no protector or pat- 
Ton in tiie heavens, to enliven their prosperity^ or to wamit 
their hearts with gratitude and trust ! bi.aik. 

SECTION xxra. 

Fviuif uihtn dttpZy rooM, is noi ruAjed k> f^ sn^iienea qf 

THE dty of Sidon having surrendered to Alexander, he 
ordered Hephestion to bestow the crown on him whom 
thflr Sidonians shotild think most worthy of that hononr. 
Hephestion being at that time resident with two yoimg men 
of distinction, offered tiiem the kingdom ; but they remsed 
it, telling him that it was conti'ary to the laws of tneir coun- 
try, to admit any one to ^hat honour, who was not of the- 
royal family. 

2 He then, having expressed his admiration of thmrdisia* 
tsrested spirit, desired tnem to name one of the royal race,, 
who might remember that he had received the crown through, 
their hands. Overlooking many, who woidd have been am- 
bitions of this high honour, they made choice of Abdoloay- 
mus, whose singular merit had rendered him conspicuous,, 
even in the vale of obscurity. Though remotely related to 
tiie royal family, a series of misfortunes had redticed him to 
the necessity of cultivating a garden, for a small stipend, in 
tlie suburbs of the city. 

3 While Abdolonymus was busily employed in weeding 
bis garden, the two friends of Hephesticm, bearing in their 
hanaatbeenneD&ofioyaltyyaiqiroaychedhini vadaauitod hiin» 

Ch€i^. 9» JVfMiMOttotff Piece; 105 ^ 

kliiK* Th^ informed him tfcat Alexander had appoinied him 
to that office ; and rec^uired biin Immediately to exchange his 
rustic garb, and utensda of husbandry, for the re^l robe and 
sc:«5ptre. At the same time, they admonished htm, when he 
should be seated on the throne, and have a nation in his 
DoweK not to forget the humble condition fisim which he had 
DetiH raised. 

4 All this, at the first, appeared to Abdolonymus as an illu- 
«ion of tlie fancy, or an insult offered to his poverty. He 
requested them not to trouble him farther with their imper 
tinent jests ; and to find some other way of amusing them 
selves, which might leave him in the peaceable enjoyment 
his obscure habitation. — At length, however, they convinced 
bim, that they were serious in their proposal ; and previiiled 
upon him to accept the regal office, and accompany them to 
the palace. 

5 JVo sooner was he in possession of the government, than 
pride and envy cneated him enemies ; who whispered their 
murmurs in every place, till at last they reached the ear of 
Alexander. He conunanded the new-elected prince to be 
«ent for ; and enquired of him, with what teinper of mind he 
bad borne his poverty. ** Would to Heaven,*^ replied Abdo- 
lonymus, ^'that ] may be able to bear my crown with equal 
moideratiun : for when I possessed little, I wanted nothings 
these hands supplied me with whatever I desired." From 
this answer, Alexander formed so high an idea of his wisdom, 
that he confirmed the choice which had been made | and an* 
nexed a neighbouring province to the government of Sidon. 



The Speech of Fabricius, a Roman amhassculor, to king 
PyrrhuSy toho aUempied io bribe km to his interests^ by the 
offer of a grtai sum of money, 
X^TIl H regard to my poverty, the king has, indeed, been 
T V justly u) formed. My whole estate consists in a house 
of but mean appearance, and a little spot of ground ; from 
which, by my own labour, I draw my support. But if, by 
any means, thou hast been persuaded to tniuk that this pov- 
erty renders me of less consequence in my own country, or in 
any degree unhappy, thou art ^atly deceived. 

^ I have no reason to complain of fortune : she supplies me 
with all that nature requires ; and if I am without superfluities, 
1 am iWso free from the desire of them. With these, 1 con- 
fess I should be more able to succour the necessitous, the oniT 
advantage for which the wealthy are to be envied ; but small 
^ my^poinea M aus are, i eon still contribute somethins 

i<i6l 7%e EngliMh Reader:, JPari U 

!• the import of the state, and the aisistanee of my friends. 

3 Witn respect to hoaoursy my country places me, poor as 
I am, upon a level with the ricnest : • for Rome knows no 
qualincatioiis for great employments, hut virtue and ability. 
she appoints me to officiate in the most august ceremonies of 
rdigion ; she intrusts me with the command of her armies ; 
she confides to my care the most important negociations« 
ISiy poverty does not lessen the weight and influence of mj 
counsels in the senate. 

4 The Roman people honour ine for that very poverty, 
which king Pyrrhus considers as a dis^ace. The^ knoiv the 
many opportunities I have had to enrich myself^ without cm- 
sure ; they are convinced of my disinterested zeal for their 
prosperity : and if I have any thing to comjpYain of, in the 
return they make me, it is only the excess or their applause. 
What value, then, can 1 put upon thy cold and silver ? What 
king can add any thing to my fortune r Always attentive to 
discharge tiie duties incumbent upon me, I have a mindfrett 
fromseu-reproach ; and I have an honest £une. 

Charader ofj^xz^ I. Attig' ofEngkmd, 

NO prince, so little enterprismg and so inoffensive, was 
ever so much exposed to the opposite extremes of cal- 
umny and flattery, of satire and panegyric And the factions 
whicQ began in his time, being still continued, have made 
his character be as much disputed to this day, as is conunonly 
that of princes who are our contemporaries. 

2 Many virtues, however, it must be owned, he was pos* 
sessed of; but not one of them pure, or free from the conta- 
gion of the neighbouring vices. His ^eneroaty bordered on 
profusion, his learning on pedantry, his pacific disposition on 
pusillanimity, his wisdom on cunmng, his friendship on fight 
fancy and boyish fondness. 

3 While he imagined that he was only maintaining his 
own authority^ he may perhaps be suspected in some of his 
actions, and still more or his pretensions, to have encroached 
dn the liberties of his people. While he endeavoured, by an 
exact neutrality, to acquire the good-will of all his neighbours,' 
he was able to preserve fully the esteem and regard of none. 
His capacity was consideraole, but fitter to discour&e on gen- 
eral maxims, than to conduct any intricate business. 

4 His intentions were just, but more adapted to the con- 
duct ofpnvate life, than to the government of kingdoms. 
Awkward in his person, and ungainly in his manners, fte was 
ill qualifiad to command mpect; partial and ^' ' 

Chap^ 9, ' Fromscutj^iM Piece*. fCf 

his affecfions, h^ whs little fitted to acquire general lore. Of 
a feeble temper, more than of a frugal judprment; exposed to 
our ridicule from his Tanity, but exempt from our hatred by 
his freedom from pride and arrogance. 

5 And, upon the whole, it may be pronounced of his char- 
acter, that all his qualities were sullied with weakness, and 
embellished by humanity. Potidcal courage he was certain- 
ly devoid of; and from thence chiefly is derived the strong 
prejudice, which prevails against his personal bravery : an 
mfereoee, however, which must be owned, from general ei> 
perieDce, to be extremely fallacious. hums. 


CsAR^ss V. emperor of German^y rmgna hia doMnwMj and 

• retires from the toorld, 

THIS great emperor, in the plenitude of his power, and in 
possesbion ofall the honours which can flatter the heart 
of maDy took the extraordinary resolution, to resign his king- 
doDcis ; and to withdraw entirely from any concern in business 
or the affairs of this vf^orld, in order that he might spend tlie 
remainder of his days in retirement ajsd solitude. 

2 Though it requires neither deep reflection, nor extraor-* 
dinary discernment, to discover that the state of royalty is 
not exempt from cares and disappointments ; though most of 
those who are exalted to a throne, iind solicitude, and satiety. 
and disgust, to be Jheir perpetual attendants, in that enviea 
pre-eminence ; yet, to descend voluntarily from the supreme 
to a subordinate station, and to relinq4|sn the possession of 

Eowcr in order to attain the enjoyment of happiness, seems to 
e an effort too great for the human mind. 
S Several instances, indeed, occur in history, of monarchs 
who have quitted a throne, and hare ended their days in re- 
tirement But they were either weak princes, who took thi$ 
resolution rashly, and repented of it as soon as it was taken ; 
or unfortunate i^rinces, from whose hands some strong rival 
had wrested their sceptre, and com})elled them io descend 
withreluctance into a private station. 

4 Dioclesian is, perhaps, the aiA} prince capal^e of holding 
the reigns of government, who ever resigned them from delib- 
erate choice ; and who continued, during many years, to enjoy 
the trahquttlity of retirement, without fetchfng one penitent 
sijgh, or casting badc>.one look of desii-e, towards the power or 
dignity which ne had abandoned. 

5 Np wonder, then^ that Charles's resignation should filt 
aO Europe with astomshment; and give rise, both among hift 

intemiNMrBnes, aadaxBOoc the histonaoe of that perkya« ta 


158 The BngUsh Reader. Part 1. 

▼mrious conjectures coDcenring the motives which detennined 
a pruice, whose ruline passion had been unif^rml^ the love of 
power, at the age of fittjr-six, when objects of ambition operate 
with full force on the mind, and are pursued with the greatest 
ardour, to take aresolution so siDguIar and unexpected. 

6 The emperor, in pursuance of his determination^ hayii^ 
assembled the states of the Low Countries at Brussels, seated 
himself, fbr the last time, in the chair of state : on one side of 
which was placed his son, and on the other, his sister the 
queen of Hungary, regent of the Netherlands, with a splendid 
retinue of the srandees of Spain and princes of the empire 
standing behind him. 

7 The president of the council of Flanders, by his com- 
mand, explained, in a few words, his intention in callihg this 
extraordinary meeting of the states. He then read the iiistru- 
ment of resignation, by which Charles surrendered to his son 
Philip all his territories, juvisdiction, and authority in the Low 
Countries ; absolving his subjects there from their oath of 
allegiance to him, which he required them to transfer to Phil- 
ip his lawful heir ; and to serve him with the same loyalty 
and zeal that they had manifested, during so long a course of 
years, in support of his government 

8 Charles then rose from his seat, and leaning on the shoul- 
der of the prince of Orange, liecause he was unable to stand 
without support, he addressed himself to the audience j and, 
from a paper which he held in his hand, ih order to assist his 
memory, ne recounted, with dignity, but without ostentation, 
all the great things which he had undertaken and performed, 
since the commencement of his administration. 

9 He observed, that from the seventeenth year of his age, 
he had dedicated all his thoughts and attention to public oo- 
jects, reserving no portion of his time for the indulgence of his 
ease, and very little for the enjoyment of private pleasure ; 
that either in a pacific or hostile manner, he had visited Ger- 
many nine times. Spain six times, France four times, Italr 
seven times, the Low Countries ten times, England twice, Af- 
rica as often, and had made eleven voyages by sea ; that whils 
his health permitted him to discharge his duty, ana the vigour 
of his constitution was equal, in any degree, to the arduous o^ 
fice of governing dominions so extensive, he had never shun- 
ned labour, nor repmed under fatigue.; that now, when hii 
health was broken, and his vigour exhausted by the rage of 
an incurable distemper, his growing infirmities admonishttd 
him to retire ; nor was he so fond ofreigning, as to retun tlis 
•MDtra ID Ml impotent hand, which was no loayir aUe fs 

Chap. 9. Pronnseuous Pieces. 169 

f^tect hw subjects, or to render them happj fhatinttead 
^f a soTereign worn out with diseases, and scturoriy hdlaK^, 
he ^ve them one io the prime of life, accustomed already to 
govern, and who added to the vigour of youth, all the atten- 
tion and sasadty of maturer years ; that if during the cotuiM 
of a long administration, he had committed any material er- 
ror in government, or if, under the pressure of so many Bad 
great affairs^ and amidst the attention which he haa been 
oUi^ed to gtve to them, he had either neglected' or injured 
any of his subjects, he now implored their forgiveness ; that* 
for his part he should ever retain a grateful sense of uidr 
fidelity ana attachment, and would carry the remembnmce of 
it along with hun to the place of his retreat, as bia sweetest con- 
solatioo, as well as the l>est reward for all his services.; and 
in his last prayers to Almighty God, would pour forth hm ar- 
dent wishes for their welfare. 

10 Then turning towards Philip, who fell on his kneesand 
kissed his father's band, ** If," says he, ** I bad left you, br my 
death, this rich inheritance, to which I have made sUch iai|^ 
additions, some regard would have been justly due to my 
memory on that account ; but now, when I voluntarily resign 
to you what I mi^ht have still n^tained, I may well eitpect the 
warmest expressions of thanks on your part. With these, 
however, I mspense; and shall consider your concern for the 
Welfare of your subjects, and your love of th^m, as the best 
tfnd most acceptable testimony of your gratitude to me. It 
IS in your power, by a wise and nrtuons administration, to 
justify the extraordinary proof which I give this day of my 
paternal affection, and to aemonstrate that you are worthy of 
the confidence which I repose in you. Preserve an Inviola- 
ble regard for religion ; maintain the Catholic futh in its pu- 
rity ; let the laws of ^our country be sacred in your eyes : 
encroach not on the nghts and privileges of your people ; and 
if the time shall ever come, when you shall wish to enjoy the 
tranquillity of private life, may you have a son endowed With 
such quamies, that you can resign your sceptre to him, with 
as much satisfaction as I give up mine to you.'* 

11 As soon as Charles had finished this lung address to his 
subjects, and to their new soverei^, he sunk into the chair, 
exhausted and ready to faint with the fatigue of so extraordi- 
aatr an effort. During his discourse, the whole audience 
melted into tears ; some from admiration of his magnanimity ; 
Odiers softened by the expressions of tenderness towards his 
son, and of love to hb people ; and all were affected with 
Hr deepeit sorrow, at losmg a to^eroign, Who h*d di»> 


17D The EngiUh Reader. Part 1. 

tiBSUHhed the Netherlands, his native conntry, with iiaitco 
larmarkB of hbr^Sardand attachmeot 


Hm same svhject continuefL 

AV&W weeks after the resirnation of the Netherlsnds, 
Charies, in an assembly no wss splendid, and with a cer- 
emonial equaUy pompous, resigned to his son the crowns o( 
Spain, witn all the territories depending on them, both in the 
old and in the new world. Of all these vast possessions, he 
reserved nothing for himself, but an annual pension of a hun- 
dred thousand crowns, to defray the charges of his fiunily, and 
to aflbrd hirik a small sum for acts of beneieence and duirity. 

ft Notiung now remained to detain him frotai that retreat 
for which he lan^shed. Every thing having been prepared 
•ome time for his voyage, he-set out for Zuitburgh in Zealand, 
where the fleet had orders to rendezvous. In nis way thith- 
er, iie. passed Uirough Ghent : and af)ter stopning there a few 
days, to indulge Ihat tender and pleasing melancholy, which 
arises in the mjnd of every man in the decline of life, oo visit- 
ing the place of his OBtivity, and viewine the scenes and ob- 
jeSts femiliar to him in his early youth, he pursued his jour- 
ney, accompanied by his son ^lulip, his daughter the arch 
duchess^ his sdsters the dowager queens of France and Hun- 
gary, Maxioiilian his son-io-iaw, and a numerous retinue of 
the Flenush nobiliU. Before he went on board, he dismis- 
sed them, with marks of his attention and regard ; and taking 
leave of Philip with all the tenderness of a father who embra- 
ced his son for the last time, he set sail under convoy of a 
large fleet of -Spanisfi, Flemish, and English ships. 

3 His voyaee was prosperous and agreeable ; and he ar- 
rived at Lareao in Biscay, on the eleventh day after he left 
Zealand As soon as he landed, he fell prostrate on the 
pound; and considering himself now as dead to the world, 
Ee kissed tiie earth, and said, '^ Naked came I out of my 
mother's womb, and naked I now return to thee, thou com- 
mon mother of mankind." From Liaredo he proceeded to 
Valladolid. There he took a last and tender leave of his two 
sisters ; whom he would not permit to accompany him to his 
solitude, though they entreated it with tears : not only that 
they might have the consolation of contributing, by their at- 
tendance and care, to mitigate or to sooth his sufferings, buti 
^t they might reap instruction and benefit, by joining with 
him in those pious exercises, to which he had consecrated the 
remainder ofhis days. 

f^From Valladotid, he contmued his journey to Plaasencia 
m Estremadm^ He had passed through that city a gr^t 

cisny yean heloBe $ aod bayiag been itruek tt ikk% time with 
Eitft clebiib^uJ atuatiyiiofth«$ monastery of St. Justus, belong* 
ii; to 4he order of SC< Jerome, not ipany miles jdistant from 
^>tit ph«*tt, be had then observed to some of his attendaD^ that 
CMS. war* a spot to tvhkh Dioclesiao might have retired with 
klt&tiaurcu The impression had remained so strong on hU 
mtid» that he pitched qpon it as the place of hh retreat. 

5* U Wiis seated in a vale of no fjreat extent, watered hj a 
iiuall brook, and sun*oanded by rising groundi^ covered with . 
to rty treea. From the nature of the soil, as well as the tern- 
pt^ruturu uf the climate, it was esteemed the most heahhfu] / 
and delicious situation in Spain. 

6 S o me m on ths before his resignalkm. he had sent an archi- 
tect tiiither, to add anew apartment to tne monastery, for his 
accommodation ; but he gave strict orders that the style of the 
building should be suchas suited his present station, rather 
than his former dignity. * It consisted only of six rooms, four 
of them in the form of friars' ceH% witb naked walb ; the 
other two, each twenty feet square, were « hung with brown 
doth, and furnished in th^ most simple manner. They were 
an on a level with ttm gMund ; with a door ott one side into a 
garden, of which Charles hh na cl f had given the plan, and had 
filled it with varions plttto, which he pr^pMedto ci^vat* 
with his own^banda. Oaths otiier side, Itey ^oBummiretBd 
with the chapel of the monaaleryy in which he was to perform 
his devotions. 

7 Into this humble retreat, hardly laffiei^nt for theoomfort- 
able accommodation of a* private gentleman, did Charles 
enter, with twelve domestics only, lie buried there, in soli- 
tude and silence, his grandeur, his ambition,, together with all 
those vast projects, which, daring half a century, had alarmed 
and agitated Europe ; filling every kingdom. in it, by turns, 
with Uie terror of liis arms, and tne dr^d of beinic subjeeted 
to his power. 

8 In this retirement, Charles tormed such a plan of life for 
himself, as would have suited the condition of a private per- 
son of a moderate fortune. His table was neat but plain ; his 
d(Mn«^stics few ; his intercourse with them familiar ; all the 
cumhersume and ceremonious forms y>f attendance on* hit 
person were entirely abolished, as destructivse of that social 
ease nnd tranquillity, which he courted, in order to sooth the 
reaiaiiiderofhisdays. As the mildness of the clinuite,tG«eth 
er with his deliverance from the burdens and cares orgpv* 
ernmeiit, procured him, at first, a considerable remissioB 
from the acute pains witii which he had been lon^ torment* 
•d, ite euioyed» periiafM^ more complete satisfectioa In tiyi 


in Tkt EngUsh Raider. Part 1. 

httmUe Bolitade. than all his gramleur had ever yielded him. 
14 The ambttiaus thouehto and projects which had so lonjg 
•Dgroflsed and diaquietea him, weie quite eiSaoed Irmn his 
mind. Far ftom tudng any part in the political trancHMStioDa 
ofthe princes of Europe^ he restrained his curiosity even 
frtnn any inqwry concermng them ; and he seemed to view 
tlMhusy scene which he had abandoned, with all the contempt 
and inomerence arising from his thorough experience of its 
Tanity, as well as from the pleasing reflection of having dis- 
entangled himself from its cares. na. KOBXRTSoif . 






9nniS education forms the common mind: 
X Just as the twig is bent, tiieinae^im^U 

With pleasure let us own our errors past j ^^ 

And make each day a critic on the last 


A soul wi Aont reflection, like a pile 
Without inhabitant, to ruin runs. 

8eerd vtrftt€L 
The private path, the secret acts of men 
If noble, far the noblest of their lives. 

^ecumnt knoudedge taMly aUainetL 
Our needful knowledge, like our needful food, 
Unhedg'd, lies opep in life's common field ; 
And bids all welcome to the vital feast 

Disappointment lurks in many a prize. 
As bees in flow'rs, and stings us with success. 

Viriuout devaUon, 
The mind that would be happy, must be great . 
Great in its wishes ; great in its surveys. 
Extended views a narrow mind extend. 

NOTK^ln Ui« first chapter, the Compiler has exhibited a coniidenUe ti 
*ar m MetiMl MOMroctioBifiBr the jmag rMder'k fnpmniarr 

• 1. Seha SmUmeetf^ tf$ 

Who lires to nature, nurdy can be poor $ 
Who liTes to fiuiqr, never can be rich. 

In fiuth and hope the world will disagree ; 
But all mankind^B concern is charity.. 

The frixe of Virtue. 
What nothins earthly gives, or can destroy, 
The soul's calm sunsmne, and the heart-fisit jo j. 
Is virtue's prize. 

Seme and modetty eonneded. ^ 

Distrustful sense with modest caution speaki ; 
It stiU looks home, and short excursions makes ; \ 
But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks. 

Moral disemimi iahdary, 
Heav'n pves us friends to bless the present scene. 
Resumes them to prepare us for the next 
All evils natural are moral goods ; 
All discipline, indulgence, on the whole. 

Present bleasings undervaknedm 
Like bfrds, whose beauties languish, half oonceal'd, 
Till, mounted on the wing, their glossy plumes 
Expanded} shine with azurts, green, and gold. 
How biessugs brighten as they take their flight! 

Hope, of aU passions, most befriends us here ; 
Passions of prouder name befriend us less. 
Joy has her tears, and transport has her death ; 
Hope, like a cordial, innocent, though strong, 
Man's heart, at once, inspirits and serenes. 

Happiness modesi and tranqu£L 

^Never man was truly blest. 

But it composed and gave him such a cast, 
As folly might mistake for want of joy : 
A. cast unlike the triumph of the proud ; 
4. modest aspect, and a sqiile at neart 

True greatness. 
Who noble>n<lsby noble means obtains, 
Or failing, smiles in exile or in chains, 
Like eood Aurelius, let him rei^n^ or bleed 
Like socrates, that man is great mdeed. 

The fear of sympathy. 
No radiant pearly which crested rortune wears, 
No gem, that twinkling hangs from beauty's '^ 

174 The BngHsh Reader. Petri 2. 

Nor the bright stars, which night's blue arch adorn, 
Nor risiiis suns that gild the vernal mom, 
Shine wim such lustre, as the tear that breaks, 
For others' wo, down Virtue's manly cheeks. 



BUss of celestial Origin, 

RESTLESS mortals toil for nought ; 
Bliss in vain from earth is sought ; 
Bliss, a native of the sky, 
Never wanders. Mortals, try ; 
There you cannot seek in vain ; 
For to seek her, is to gaiu. 

The Passions. 
The passions are a numVous crowd, 
Imperious, positive, and loud. 
Curb tnese licentious sons of strife ; 
Hence chiefly rise the storms of life : 
If they grow mutinous, and rave, 
They are thy masters, thou their slave. 

TViMf in Providence recommended. 
*Tis Providence alone secures, 
Ib ev'ry change, both mine and yours. 
Safety consists not in escape 
From dangers of a frightful shape T 
An earthquake may be bid to spare 
The man that's stranded by a hair. 
Fate steals along with silent tread, 
Found oft'nest in what least we dread ; 
Frowns in the storm with angry brow, 
Bui In the sunahine strikes the blow. 


Howlov'd, how valued once, avails thee not ; 
To whom related, or by whom begot : 
Aheap of dust alone remains of thee; 
*Tii all thou art^ and all the proud shall be. 

AH fame is foseaen, but of true desert ; 
Plays round theliead, but comes not to the heart. 
ODesd^-app^oving hour, whi^e years outweighs 
Of vtiqnd starers, and of loud huzzas ; 
And more true Joy Marcellus exird feels, 
naa Cesar with arsenate at Us heel«. 

Chap, 1. Sehci ^Htaiccs.x'yi' 17 J 

Virtue the guardian of youth, 
Down the unootn a.. ...^n of life the stri|^liric darte, 
Gay as the morn ; bright glows the vernal iky, 
Hope swells his sails, and Passion steec^ his course. 
Sate glides his little nark along the shore, 
Where Virtue takes her stand: but if too far 
He launches forth beyond discretion's mark^ 
Sudden the tempest scowls, the surges roar. 
Blot his fair day, and plunge him in the deep. 

But yonder comes thepow'rful king of di^, 
Rejoicing in the east. The less'nin^ cloudl. 
The kincUing azure, and the mountam's brow, 
lUum'd with fluid gold, his near approach 
Betoken glad. Lo, now, apparent all 
Aslant the dew-bright earth, and colour'd air^ 
He looks in boundless majesty abroad. 
And sheds the shining day, that burnish'd plays 
On rocks, and hills, and tow'rs, and wand'rmg streami^ 
High gleaming from afar. 

May I govern my passions with absolute sway; 
And grow wiser and better, as life wears away. 

On a mountain, stretch'd beneath a hoarv willow. 
Lay a shepherd swain, and view'd the rolling billow 




Competence, v 

A COMPETENCE is all we can enjoy : 
Oh ! be cdntent, where Heav'n can give no more ! 
Refiection esaenUal to happiness. 
Much joy not only speaks small happiness^ 
But happiness that shortly must expire. 
Can joy, unbottomfd in reflection, stand ? 
And, in a tempest, can reflection live ? 

Can gold gain friendship ? Impudence of hope! 
As well mere man an angel might beget. 
Love, and love only, is the loan for love. 
Lorenzo ! pride repress ; nor hope to find 
A friend, but mnat has found^ friend ip thee. 
All like the purchase ; few the price will pay : 
And this makts friends such miracles below. 

176 The EngUth Reader. Pari% 

Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day 
(Li^e till to-morrow) wul have pass'd away. 

f Q luxury ! 

Bane of elated lifo^ of affluent states, 
What dreary change, what ruin is not thine ! 
How doth tny bowl intoxicate the mind ! 
To the soft entrance, of thy rosy cave. 
How dost thou lure the fortunate and great ! 
Dreadful attraction ! 

VitiuouB acHvify. 
Seize, mortals ! seize the transient hour ; 
Improve each moment as it flies : 
Life's a short summer — man a flow'r ; 
He dies — ^Alas ! — ^how soon he dies ! 

The source of happiness. 

Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense, 
Lie in three words ; health, peace, and, competence : 
But health consists with temperance alone ; 
And peace, O virtue ! peace is all thy own. 

Placid emotion. 
W ho can forbear to smile with nature ? Can 
The stormy passions in the bosom roll, 
While ev'ry gale is peace, apd evVy grove 
Is melody? 

• SdUude*. 
O sacred solitude ; divine retreat ! 
Choice of the prudent ! envy of the great! 
By thy pure stream, or in tny waving shade, 
We court fair wisdom, that celestial maid : 
The genuine offspring of her lov'd embrace, 
• (Strangers on earth,) are innocence and peace. 
There from the ways of men laid safe a^ore, 
We smile to hear the distant tempest roar ; 
There, bless'd with health, with bus'ness unperplex'd, 
This life we relish, and ensure the next 

Presume not on to-morrow. 
In human hearts what bolder thoughts can rise, 
Than man' ' esumption on to-morrow's dawn ? 
Where is • » > rrow ? In another world. 
For numbers tuis is certain ; the reverse 
Is sure to none. 
•Bjwallim^ bere to ianit» « icnporafjr fMlu^km tnm tte world. 

** Live, while you live,'' tlie emcuns winiil'sav, 
** And seize the pleasures of the present day,''^ 
** Live, while you live,*' the sacred preacher crieii 
^ And ^ive to God each moment as it flies." 
Lord ! in my views, let both united be ; 
I live in pleasure, when I Uve to thee!-— poDMtiDom 



The iecurify ^f Virtue, 

LET coward guilt, with pallid fear 
To shelt'ring caverns ny, 
I And Justly dread the vengeful fate, 
That thunders throuKh the sky. 
Protected by th^ hand, whose law 

The threatening storms obey. 
Intrepid virtue smiles secure, 
As in the blaze of day. 

And Oh ! by enpor's force subdu'd, 

Since oft my stubborn wiU 
Prepost'rous shuns the liatent good, 

Ajid grasps the specious il^ 
Not to my wish, but to my wanti 

Do thou thy gifts apply ; 
Unask'd^ what good thou knowest grant $ 

What ill, though ask'd% deny. 


I havet found out a gift for my fair j 

1 have found where the wood-pigeOMi brood t 
But let me that plunder forbear \ 

She will say, 'tis a barbarous deed. 
For he ne'er can be true, she averr'd, 

Who can rob a poor bird of its young: 
And I lov'd her the more, when I heard 

Such tenderness fall from her tongue 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 

A youth to fortune and to fame unknown; 
Fair science frownV) not on his humble birtb« 

And mcJaneholy mark'd him for her own 
Larze was his bounty, and his soul sincore ; 

H^v'n did a recompense as largely send : 
He gave to mis'ry all he had — a tear; 

He gain'd froiBf Hoav'n (^twaiB all he wish'd) a Aiend 

171: Tie EmgiM Readm Arf:i« 

No further leek fak mentt to dnclose, 

Or draw his frailties A'om their -dread abode, 
(There they alike in trembling hope repoie,) 

The bosom of his Father and his God. 
Joy and Mtrow amntded. 
Still, where rosy pleasure leads, 
Bee a kindred gnef pursue ; 
Behind the steps that misery treads, 
Approaching comforts view. 
The hues ofDiiss more brightly glow, 
Chastis'd by tints of wo ; sable 
And blended lorni, with artful strife, 
The strength and harmony of life. 

J%e golden mean. I 

He that holds fast the golden mean, 
And lives cpntentedly between 

The little and the great, 
Feels not the wants that pinch the poor, 
Not plagues that haunt the rich man's doov 

Imbitt'rine all his state. . . 

The tallest pmes, feelmddt the pow'r 
Of wint'ry blast ; the loftiest tow'r 

Comes heaviest to the ground. 
The bolts that spare the mountain's nde, 
His cloud-capt eminenee divide, 

And spread the ruin round. 

Modarede vietM and aimsrteommended. 
With passions unruffled, untainted with pride, 

By reason my life let me square ; 
The wants of my nature, are cheaply supplijed ; 

And the rsst ace but foUy and care. 
How vainly, throueh infimte trouble and strif^ 

The many their labours employ! 
Since all that is truly delightful in life. 

Is what all, if they please, mirf enjoy 

Jmackmentio Ufe, ^ 

The tree of deepest root is found, 

Least willing still to quit the ground : 
Twas therefore said, by ancient sages, 
.That loyeof life iocreaa'd with years, 

So inucb, that in our later stages, 

When pains grow sharp, and sickness rsf eSi 
The greatest love of life appears. 

Virtue? 8 address to pUoMort^ 
Vast happiness enjoy thy py allies* 

A youdipf follies, an oldage of evrsi % " 


Young yet c^nertate, ofd yet nefv«r wn^ ' 

Vice wMtentbcir vigour, and their mind Impairs. 
Vain, idle, delicate, in tJioughttess ea^e, • 

Res^Tving woes fora^, %eirf>rin)e they spend 
Aii wretched, hopeless, m the evil days. 

With sorrow to the verge of life they> tend. 
Griev'd with the present, of the past asham'd, 

They lire and are despisM ; they die, no more ar«< 





SOFT is the strain when aepnyr gently blows. 
And the smooth stream in sfnoother numb^r;^ flows. 
But wheQ loud surges lash the sounding shore, / 
The hoarsp., rough verse, should like the torrent roeir. 

jSlow\fnoUon imitated., 
.Vhen A]ax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 
The line too labours, and the words move slow. 

Swift and ectsjf motion. 
Not so when'swift Camilla scours the plain, ^ 
Flies o*er th' unb«n(hng ceni, and skims along the mai|l. 

Felling trees in a wood. 
Loud sounds the aiee, redoubling strokes on strokes ; 
On all sides round the forest, hurls her oaks 
Headlong. Deep echoing groan the thickets brown ; 
Then rustling, crackling, crashing, thunder down. 

Sffund of a botv^string. 

'■ 1 ■ ^The string let fly 

Tw2:ng'd short and sharp, like the sbrul swallow's cry 

The Phectaant, 
See ! from the brake, the whirring pheasant sprmgs. 
And mounts exultii^ on triumphant wings. 

ScyUa and Charyhdis. 
Dire Scylla there a scene of horror forms, 
And here Charybdis fills the dei^p with, storms. 
When the tide rushes from her rumbling caves. 
The rough rock roars ; tumultuous boil the waves. 

BoiaierouB and gemtie sounds* 
Two craggy rocks projecting to the main^ 
The roanng winds tempestuous rage restrain . 
Within, the waves in soiter murmurs gHde; 
And ships secure witboot their bakera nd^ 

in Tke BngiUh ReOaer. Fart 2 

Labariouf and tmpetootM moHon. 
With many a weary step, aoa many a groan, 
Up the high hill he heaTes a huge round stone : 
Ttie huge round stone resulting with a bound, 
Thunders impetuous down, and smokes along the ground. 

Regular and tkw movement. 
First march the heavy mules securely slow: 
O'er hills, o'er dales^ o'er crags, o'er rocks tney go. 

Mahon dow and difficult* 
, A needless Alexandrine ends the song, 
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. 

A rock tomjrom the bnnv of a mountain. 
Still gath'ring force, it smokes, and urg'd amain. 
Whins, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous to tne^plain. 

Esient and vioknce of (he waves. 
The wares behind impel the waves before. 
Wide-rolling, foaming hi^h, and tumbling to the shore. 

Pensive numbers. 
In these deep solitudes and awful ceUs, 
Where heavenly pensive contemplation dwelli^ 
And ever-musing melancholy reigns. 

■■ «-—— Arms on armour^ clashing, brayM 
Horrible discord ; and the madding wheals 

. <t^. Sound tmuaUng nluctanm. 
For wfaoj^dumb forgetfulness a prey. 

This pleasing anxious being e'er resignHI ; 
L^ft the warm predncts of the cheerfuldaj, 
Nor cast one longing, lingering kM)k behmd ? 



Connubial ofieHbn, 

THE k>v« that cheers life'ii latest stage, 
Proof against sicknees and old age, 
Preserv'd by virtue from decleoskm. 
Becomes not weary of attention : 
But lives, when that exterior grace. 
Which irstinsphred the flame, deoiyt. 
Tis jentle, dehcate, and kind. 
To niults compassionate, or bond ; 
And vnVt with syn&pathy enduR 
Thoeejevik it woutd gladly cure. 
Bnt-anery, eoane,aDd harsh expreatioa^ 
ShoWBieve to be a mere' pro f es i i B a c 

Proves that the heart is iiaiieof his, 
Or soon expels him if it is. 

Swarms ofjh/ing insects. 
Thick in yon stream of li^it, a thousand vf%j% 

£v'n so, luxurious men, unheeding, pass 
An idle summer life, in fortune's snine, 
A season's glitter ! Thus they flutter on, 
From toy to toy, from vanity to ^ioe ; 
Till, blown away by death, oblivion comes 
Behind, and strikes them from the book of Ufe» 

Beneficence its own rewarcL 

My fortune (for I'll mention all, 

And more than you dare tell) is small ; 

Yet ev'ry friendT partakes my store, 

And want coes smiling from my door. 

Will forty snillings warm the breast 

Of worth or industry distress'd ! 

This sum I cheerfully impart ; 

'TIS fourscore pleasures to my heart : 

And you may make, by means idee thesi^ 

Five talents ten, whene'er you please. 

'TKs true, my little purse grows light ; * 

But then I sleep so sweet at night ! 

This grand specific will prevail, 

When all the doctor's opiates fail. 

Virtue the best treasure. 

Virtue, the strength and beauty of the rnnd^ 
Is the best gift of Heav'n : a happiness 
That, even above the smUes ana frowns of Ibto^ 
Exalts great nature's favourites : a wealth 
That ne'er encumbers ; nor to baser hands 
Can be transferr'd. It is the only good 
Man justly boasts of, or can call his own. 
Kjches are oft by guilt and baseness eam'db 
But for one end. one much-neglected use, 
Are riches wortn our care ; (for nature's wnUft 
Are few, and without opuleace supplied ,) 
This noble end is to produce the soul : 
To show the virtues in their fairest li^i 
And make humanity the uiiaillfif 
Of bounteous Previdsow. 

m^ The Enghah Reader. Fartt. 

Aft yet *ti8 midm^ht deep. The weary dovdiii 
Slow meeting, mingle into solid gloom. 
Now, while the drowsy world lies lost in sleep, 
Let me associate with the serious night, 
And contemplation, her sedate compeer; 
Let me shake off th' intn^sive cares of day 
And lay the meddling senses all aside. 

Where now^ ye lying vanities of life i 
Ye ever tempting, ever cheating train ! 
Where are you now ? and whatis your amountP 
Vexation, aisappointment, and remorse. 
Sad, akk'ning tnought ! And yet, deluded man, 
A scene of crude disjointed visions past. 
And bffuken slumbers, rises still resolv'd, 
With new fiush'd hopes, to run the giddy round 

PUcuure ofpiehf* 
A Deity betievM, is joy begun : 
A Deity adorM. is joy advane'a ; 
A Dei^ belov'a, is joy matured. 
Each branch of piety delight inspires : 
Faith buikls a bndge from this world to the next, 
O'er death's dark gulf, and all its horror hidea; 
^ahe, the sweet exhalation of our joy, 
lliat ioy exalts, and makes it sweeter still , 
Pvay'r ardent opens heav'n, lets down a ^ream 
* Of glory, on the consecrated hour 
Of man in audience with the Deity. 


The hears and the bees. 

AS two Toune bears, in wanton mood. 
Forth issuing from a neighbouring wood, 
Game where th' industrious bees hadstor'd. 
In. artful cells, their luscious hoard ; 
O'eijoy'd they seiz'd, with eager haste, 
Luxurious on the rich repast. 
Alarm'd at tihis, the littie crew, 
About their ears, vindictive flew. 
ft The beasts, unable to sustain 
Th> une()ual combat, quit the plain : 
Half-blind with rtige, and mad with pain, 
Th«ir native thttlfefer they refun ; 

Chap. ft. Narrative Piecef. 1%$ 

There sit, and now, discreeter grown, 
Too late their rashneaa they bemoan ; 
And this by dear experience gain, 
That pleasure's ever bought with pain. 
9 So when the gilded baits of vice, 
Are plac'd before our longing eyes, 
Witn greedy haste we snatch our fill, 
And swallow down the latent ill : 
B.utwhen experience opes our eyes. 
Away the fancied pleasure flies. 
It dies, hilt oh ! too late we find, 
It leaves a real sting behind. — merrigk. 


The nightingale and the glow-worvu 

A NIGHTINGALE^ that all day long 
Had cheer'd the village with his long. 
Nor yet at eve his note suspended. 
Nor yet when eventide was ended, 
Began to feel, as well he mi^ht, 
The keen demands of appetite ; 
When^ looking eagerly around. 
He spied far on ^ upon the ground, 
A something shining in the dark. 
And knew the glow-worm by his spark 
So stooping down from hawthorn top 
He thought to put him in his crop. 

2 The worm, aware of his intent, 

Harangued him thus, right eloquent — 
" Did you admire my lamp," quoth he, 
" As much as I your minstrelsy, 
You would abhor to do me wrong. 
As much as I to spoil your song ; 
For 'twas the self-same Pow'r divine. 
Taught you to sing, and me to shhie ; 
That you with music,! with li^ht, 
Miy;ht beautify and cheer the night." 

9 The songster heard his short oration. 
And, warbling out his approbation, 
Releas'd him, as my story tells. 
And found a supper somewhere else. 
Hence, jarring sectaries may learn, - 
Their real intTest to discern ; 
That brother should not war with brotbwt 
And worry and do^onr aach otbar : 

But sing and shine by sweet consent, 
Till life^ poor, transient nigbt, is spent ; 
Respecting, in eacti other's case, 
The gifts of nature and of grace. 

4 Those Christians best deserve the name, 
Who studiously make peace their aim : 
Peace, both the duty and the prize 

Of him that creeps, and him that flies. — co wfba. 


The trials qf virtue. 

PliAC 'D on the rerge of youth, my mind 
Life's op'ning scene survey'd : 
I Yiew'd its ills of various kind, 
AfSicted and afraid. 

1 But chief my fear the dangers mov'd 
That virtue's path enclose : 
My heart the wise pursuit approv'd ; 
out O, what toils oppose ! 

5 For see, ah see ! while yet her ways 

With doubtful step I tread, 
A hostile world its terrors raise, 
Its snares delusive spread. 

4 O how shall I, with heart prepar'd, 

Those terrors learn to meet ? 
How, from the thousand snares to guard I 

My unexperienc'd feet ? 

5 As thus I mus'd, oppressive sleep, ' 

Soft o'er my temples drew 
Oblivion's veu. — ^Tne wat'ry deep, i 

(An object strange and new,) i 

6 Before me rose : on the wide shore i 

Observant as I stood. 
The gathering storms around me roar, j 

And heave the boiling flood. ^ ' 

7 Near and more near the billows rise ; j 

Ev'n now my steps they lave ; I 

And death, to my affrighted eyes, 
Approach'd in every wave. 

8 What hope, or whither to retreat I 

Each nerve at once unstrung ; I 

Chill fear had fetter'd fast my feet, 
And chain'd my speechless tongue. \ 


9 IfeKmyftMrCwithinmedk; 

Whtn fudden to mine ear 
▲ Toioey detceDdiDg from on high, 
Bepror'd my erring iear. 

10 ^ What tfao* the swalling surge thoiiaat 

Impatient to devour ; 
Rest, mortal, rest on God's decree, 
And thankful own his pow'r. 

1 1 Know, when he bade the deep appear^ 

•Thus far,' th' Almighty said, 
'Thus far, no farther, rage ; and here 
'Let thy proud waves be stay'd.' ^ 

IS 1 heard ; and lo ! at once controU'd, 
The waves, in wild retreat. 
Back on themselves reluctant roU'd, 
And, murm'ring, left my feet 
IS Deeps, to assembling deeps, in vain 
Once more the si^al gave : 
The shores the rushing weight sustain 
And check th' usurping wave. 

14 Cohvinc'd, in nature's volume wise, 
The imag'd truth I read ; 
And sudden from my waking eyes, 
Th' instructive vision Aed. 
If Then why thus heavy, O my soul 
Saj^ why distrustful still, 
Thy tnougnts with vain impatience roll 
O'er scenes of future iD ? 

It Let £uth suppress each rising fear. 
Each anxious doubt exclude : 
Thy Bfaker's will has plac'd thee here, 
A Maker wise and good ! 

17 He to thy ev'ry trial knows, 

Its just restraint to give; 
Attentive to behold thy woes, 
And faithful to relieve. 

18 Then why thus heavy, O my soul ! 

Say, whv distrustful still, 
Thv thoughts with vain imj^atience roll 
O'er scenes of future ill ? 

19 Tho' griefs unnuiQber'd throng thee roundi 

Stfll m thy God confide. 
Whose fincer marks the seas their bound, 
And euros the headlong tide. — ms&bigb. 

186 TheEnfflkhlUitder. Pkm^lB. 


The youth and the phUosdpkmr 

A GRECIAN youth^ of talents pare, 
tVhom Plato's philosophic care. 
Bad form'd for virtue's nobler view, 
By precept and example too, 
Would often boast his matchless skill, 
To curb the steed, and guide the wheel ; 
And as he pass'd the gating throng, 
With graceful ease, and smack'd me thong, 
The idiot wonder they express'd, 
Was praise and transport to his breast 

£ At length, quite vain, he needs would show 
His master what his art could do ; 
And bade his slaves the chariot lead 
To Academus' sacred shade. 
The trembling grove confess'd its fright; 
The wood-nymph started at the sight ; ' * 

The muses drop the learned lyre. 
And to their inmost shades retire. 

5 Howe'er, the youth, with forward air, . 
Bows to the sage, and mounts the car. 
The lash resounds, the coursers spring. 
The chariot marks the rolling ring ; 
And gathering crowds, with eager eyes, 
And shouts, pursue him as he flies. 

4 Triumphant to the goal retum'd. 

With nobler thirst his bosom bum'd ; 

And now along th* indented plain, 

The self-same track he marks again ; 

Pursues with care the nice design. 

Nor ever deviates from the line. 

Amazement seiz'd the circling crowd ; '' 

The youths with emulation giow'd ; 

Ev'n Dearded sages hail'd the boy, 

And all but Plato gaz'd with joy. 
9 For he, deep-judging sage, beheld 

With pain the triumphs of the field : 

And when the charioteer drew nigh, * 

And, flushed with hope, had caughl; his eye, 

"Alas! uidiappy youth," he cry'dj - 

'^ Expect no praise from me," (and sigh'd*) 

6 •With rodignation I survey 

Such skill and ^udj^mcnt thrown away : 

CJbctft. 2. Narrative Pieces. 187 

The tfine profusely sauandfer'd fhert 

On Tulgar arts beneath thy eare, 

If well employ'd, at less expense, 

Had taushtthee honour, virtiie, sense ; 

And raisM thee from a coachman's fate, 

To gof em men, and guide the state." vf htte h k ab, 


Discourse between Adam and Doe, retiring to rest, 

T^OW came still ev'ning on, and twilight gray 
J_^ Had in her sober liv'ry all things clad. 
Silence accompanied ; for beast and oird. 
They to their grassy couch, these to their nests, 
Were sunk ; aH but the wakeful nightingale. 
She, all night long, her am'rous descant sung : 
Silence wa^ pleas d. Now gluw'd the firmament 
With living sapphires : Hesperus, that led 
The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon. 
Rising in clouded majesty, at length. 
Apparent queen, unveil'd her peerless L'ght, 
And o'er the dark her silver mantle wirew. 

8 When Adam thus to Eve : ** Fair consort, th' host 
Of night, and all things now retir'd to rest, i 

Minous of like repose ; since Ood hath set 
Labour and rest, as day and night, to men 
Successive, and the timely dew of sleep, 
Now falling with soft slumberous weight, inclinen 
Our eye-lias. Other creatures all day long 
Rove idle unemploy'd, and less need rest: 
Man hath his daily work of body or of mind 
Appointed, which' declares his dignity. 
And the regard of Heav'n on all his ways ; 
While other animals unactive range, 
And of their doings God takes no account 

' 9 To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east 
With first approach of light, we must be risen, 
And at our ])leasant labour ; to reform 
Yon flow'ry arbours, yonder alleys green, 
Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown, 
That mock our scant manuring, and require 
More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth. 
Those blossoms also, and tnose dropping gums, 
That lie bestrown, unsightly and unspiooth. 
Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease. 
Mean while, as nature wiUs, night bids ua 

ISa ^ The Bngli9h Reader. PmHl. 

4 To whom thus.£ye^ with perfect beautr adoni*d : 
** My author and disposer, what thou bidtty 
Unargu'd, 1 obey ; so God ordains. 

With thee conTersing, I forget all time ; 
All seasons and their change, all please alike. 
Sweet is the breath of mora, her rising sweet, 
With charm of earliest birds : pleasant the sun, 
When first on this delightful land he spreads 
Hii orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flow'r, 
Glist'rine with dew ; fragrant the fertile earth. 
After soft show*rs ; and sweet thexoming on 
Of grateful evening mild ; then silent night. 
With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, 
And these, the gems of heaven, her starry train i 

5 But neither breath of mora, when she ascends 
With charm of earliest biras ; nor rising mm 
On this delightful land ; nor herb, fruit, flow'r, 
Glistring with dew ; nor fragrance after show'rs ; 
Nor grateful eyening mild ; nor silent night. 
With this her solemn bird j nor walk by moon, 
■^ *'^ ' ' "ir-light, — ^withou' '' 

all night lone shii 

ight, when sleep 
To whom our cen'ral ancestor reply'd : 
^Daughter of Godan4 man, accomplished Eve. 
These have their course to finish round the eartli, 
By morrow ev'ning ; a^d fVom land to land, 
In order, though to nadons yetunboro, 
MinistVing light prepared, they set and rise ; 
Lest total darkness should by ni^ht regain 
Her old possession, iuad extmgiusb life 
In nature and all things ; which these soft fires 
Not only enlirhten, but, with kindly heat 
Of various innuence, foment, and warm. 
Temper, or nourish ; or in part shed down 
Their stellar virtue on all kinds that grow 
On earth, made hereby apter to receive 
Perfection from the sun's more potent ra^. 
These then, though unbeneld in deep of night. 
Shine not in vain ; nor think, though men were none, 
That heav'^n would want spectators, God want praise ; 
Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth 
Unseen, both when we wake, and when we slem 
All these with ceaseless praise his works behola, 
Both day and night. How often, from the steep 
Of eohoug hill or thicket, have we heard 


CAop. 3. Hjrrative Piece$^ > ISO 

Cdeidal Toices ^ tbe mkhnght air, 
Sole^ or responaiTe each to others' note, 
Sin^g their great Creator ? OftinbamlB, 
While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk 
"With heay'nly touch of instrumental sounds, ! 

In full harmonic number join'd, their songs I 

Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to neaT'n** 
8 Thus talking hand in hand alone they paas'd 
On to their blissful bow*r . 

-There arriv'd,both stood, 

Both tum'd ; and under omn sky, ador'd 

The God that made the sKy, air, earth, and heay'n, 

Which they beheld, the moon's resplendent glob^, 

And starry pole. ** Thou also mad'st the nigbt^ 

Maker Omnipotent, and thou the day. 

Which we, in our appointed work employ'd, 

Have finished, happy in our mutual help| 

And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss 

Ordain'd by thee ; and this delicious place, 

For us too large, where* thy abundance wants 

Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. 

But thou nast promis'd from us two a race^ 

To fill the eartn, who shall with us extol 

Thy goodness infinite, both when we wakcu 

And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep.** wavMiiU 

Rdigion and DeatL 

LO! a form, divinely bright. 
Descends, and bursts upon my sight ; 
A seraph of illustrious birth 1 
(Religion was her name on earth ;) 
Supremely sweet her radiant face. 
And bloomiLg with celestial grace ! 
Three shining cherubs form'd her train, 
Wav'd their light wings, and reach'd th« plain s 
Faith, with suolime and piercing eye, 
And pinions flutt'rin^ for tiie sky ; 
Here Hope, that smihng angel, stands, 
And golden anchors erace her hands ; 
There Charity, in robes of white. 
Fairest and fav'rite maid of light 
I The seraph spoke — ** 'TIS Reason's part 
To govern and to guard the heart ; 
To lull the wayward soul to rest. 
When hopes and fears, distract the breait 

290 The English Reader, , Pari 2. 

Reason mar calm this doubtful strife, 
And steer thy bark through YdHous life : 
But when the storms of death are nigh, 
And midnight darkness veils the sky, 
Shall Reason then direct thy sail, 
Disperse the ciouds, or sink the gala ? 
Stranger, this skill alone is mine, 
Skill tnat transcends his scanty line.** 
9 •* Revere thyself — thou'rt near allieii 
To angels on thy better side. 
How various e'er their ranks or kinds. 
Angels are but unbodied minds : 
When the partition-walls decay. 
Men emerge angels from their clay, 
Tes, when the frailer body dies. 
The soul asserts her kindred skies. 
But minds, though sprung from heav'nly mce. 
Must first be tutor'd for me place : 
The joys above are understood, 
And relish'd only by the good. 
Who shall assume tbis guardian care ; 
Who shall secure their birth-ri^ht there ? 
Souls are my charge — ^to me 'tis giv'n 
To train them for meir native heav'n." 
4 " Know then — who bow the early knee, 
And give the willingheart to me ; 
Who wisely, whenTTemptation waits, 
Elude her frauds, and spurn her baits ; 
Who dare to own my injur'd cause, 
Though fools decide my sacred laws ; 
Or scorn to deviate to tbe wrong. 
Though persecution lifts her thong ; 
Though all the sons of hell conspire 
To raise the stake and light the fire ; 
Know, that for such superior souls, 
There lies a bliss beyond the poles : 
Where spirits sliine with purer ray, 
And brienten to meridian day ; • 

Where love, where boundless friendship rules ; 
'No friends that change, no love that cools ;) 
Where rising floods of knowledge roll. 
And pour, and pour upon the soul !" 
'* But Where's the passage to the skies ? — 
The road through death's black valley lies. 
Nay, do not shudder at my tale ; 
Tho' dark the shades, yet safe the rait. 

Chap. 3. Didactic Pi>ee«. 1!M 

Thk p«tli the best of men have trod i 
And who'd decline the road to God r 
Oh ! 'tis a glorious boon to die ! 
This favour can't be prizd loo high. 

6 While thus she spoke, my looks expreai'd 
The raptures kindling in my breast ; 
My soul a fix.*d attention gave ; 

When the stern monarch of the crave , 
With haughty strides approach'a : — amal^ 
I stood, and tremoled as I gaz'd. 
The seraph calm'd each anxious fear, 
And kindly wip*d the falling tear ; 
Then hastened, with expanded wing, 
To meet the pale, terrinc king. 

7 But now what milder scenes arise ! 
The tyrant drops his hostile guise ; 
He seems a youth divinely fair ; 

In graceful nnglets waves his hair: 
His wings their whit'ning plumes oisplay, 
His burnish'd plumes, reflect the day ; 
Light flows his shining azure vest, 
And all the angel starras confessed. 

I view'd the change with sweet surprise ; 
And, Oh ! I panted for the skies : 
Thank'd heav'n, that e'er I drew my breath, 
And triumph'd in the thoughts of death.—- cotto 


« The vanity of wtattk, 

NO more thus brooding oW yon heap, 
With av'rice painful vigils keep ; 
Still unenjoy'd the present store, 
Still endless sighs are breath'd for mprt. 
Oh! quit the shadow, oatch the prize, 
Which not all India's treasure buys ! 
To purchase heav'n has gold the pow'r ? 
Can gold remove the mortal hour? 
In life, can lore be bought with gold ? 
Are friendship's pleasures to be sold ? 
No— all that's worth a wish — a thought, 
Fair virtue gives unbrib*d, unboueht. 
Cease thto on trash thy hopes to bind ; 
Let nobler views engage thy mind.— om. JOBiitOB6» 

19S The Engiish Reader. Part 2. 


M&dng formed in vain. 

LET no presunuDg impious railer tax 
Creative wisdom, as if aught was form'd 

In run, or not for admirable ends. 

Shall little, haujghty ignorance pronounce 

His works unwise, of whith the smallest part 

Exceeds the narrow vision of her nund r 

As if, upon a full-proportion'd dome. 

On swelling columns heavM the priae of art, *" 

A critic-fly, whose feeble ray scarce spreads 

An inch around, with blind presumption bold, 

Should dare to tax tiiestructure of the whole. 
£ And lives the man, whose universal eye 

Has swept at once th' unbounded scheme of thing* ; 

Mark'd their dependence so, and firm accord, 

As with unfault'ring accent to conclude. 

That this availeth nought? Has anj seen 

The mighty chadn of beings, less'ning down 

From infinite perfection, to the brink 

Of dreary nothing, desolate abyss ! 

From which astonish'd thought, recoiling, turns f 

Till then alone let zealous praise ascend, 
; And hymns of holy wonder to that power, 
I Whose wisdom shmes as lovely in our minds, 
; As on our smiling eyes his servant sun. — thousoii. 


On pride. 

OF all the causes, which conspire to blind 
Man's erring judgment, ana mis^ide the mM, 
What the weak head with strongest bias rules, 
bpride ; the never-failing vice of fools. 
Ylliatever nature has in worth deny'd. 
She gives in large recruits of needful pride ! 
For, as in bodies, thus in souls^ we find 
What wants in bjood and spirits, swell'd with wind. 
Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence, 
And fills up all the mighty void of sense. 
t If pnce right reason drives that cloud away, 
Truth breaks upon us with resbtl^s day. ' 

Trust not yourself ; but your defects to know, 
Make use of ev'ry friend—and ev'ry foe. 
A little learning is a dangerous thing ; 
Driak dM|^, or taste not tlM PiwiMi spi 

Cheip.S. Didactic Piecei. 19S 

There shallow draughts intoxicate the bram ; 
And drinking largely sobers us again. 

9 Fir'dat first sight with what the muse imparts. 
In fearless youth, we tempt the heights or arts j 
"While, from the bounded level of our mind, 
Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind ; 
But more advane'd, behold, with strange surprise. 
New distant scenes of endless science rise ! 
So, pleas'd at first the tow'ring Alps we try, 
Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky ; 
Th' eternal snows appear already past, 
And the first ciouds and mountains seem the last ; 
But, those attain 'd, we tremble to survey 
The growing labours of the lengthened v^ay ; 
Th' increasing prospect tires our wand'ring eyes ; 
Hills pe^p o'er nills, and Alps on Alps arise. — ^popx. 


Cruelty to brutes censureul, 

I WOULD not enter on my list of u-iends, 
(Though grac'd with polish'd manners and fln« 
Yet wanting sensibility,) the man 
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. 
An inadvertent step may crush the snail, 
That crawls at evening m the public path ; 
But he that has humanity, forowarn'd. 
Will tread aside, and let tne reptile live. 
The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight. 
And charg'd perhaps with venom, that intrude! 
A visitor unwelcome into scenes 
SflM^red to neatness and repose, th* alcove, 
The chamber, or refectory, may die. 
A necessary act incurs no blame. 
Net so, when held within their proper bounds, 
And guiltless of olFence they ran^e the air. 
Or take their pastime in the spacious field. 
There they are })rivile^'d. And he that hunti 
Or harms them there, is guilty of a wrong ; 
Disturbs th' economy of nature's realm. 
Who, when she form'd, desigu'd them an aboda. 
6 The sum is this : if man's convenience, health, 
Or safety interfere, his rights and claims 
Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs.,. 
Else they are all — the meanest tniogs that are, 
As free to live and to enjoy that life 

194 7^ EnglM Reader. Part 2. 

As God was free to form them at the first, 
Who, in his sovereign \Tisdom, made them all. 

4 Te, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons 
To love it too. The spring time of our years 
Is soon dishonour'd and defilM, in most, 

By buddinc ills, that ask a prudent hand 

To check tnem. But, alas ! none sooner shootSi 

If unrestrained, into luxuriant growth, 

Than cruelty, most dev'lish of them all. 

5 Mer(r|r to him that shows it, is the rule 
And righteous limitation of its act. 

By which heav'n moves in pard'mn^ guilty man ; 
And he that shows none, berag ripe m }[ears, 
And conscious of the outrage he commits. 
Shall seek it, and not find it in his turn. — cowper. 


d paraphrcue on the latter part of the 6th chapter ^Sl 


WHEN my bteast labours with oppressive care, 
^nd o'er my cheek descends tiie falling tear; 
While all my warring passions are at strife, 
Oh ! let me listen to the words of life ! 
Raptures deep-felt his doctrine chd impart. 
And thus he rais'd from earth the drooping heart 

3 ^ Think not, when ail your scanty stores anord, 
Is sjiread at once upon the sparing board ; 
Think not, when worn the homely robe appears, 
While on the roof the howling tempest bears ; 
What farther shall this feeblelife sustain. 

And what shall clothe these shivering limbs again, 
d Say, does not life its nourishment exceed ? 
And the fdrbody, its investing weed ? / 
Behold ! and look away your low despair — 
See the light tenants of the barren air :. 
To them, nor stores nor granaries, belong ; 
IVought, but the woodland, and the pleasing song ; 
. Yet, your kind heav'nly Father bends his eye • 
On tne least wing that flits along the sky. 

4 To him they sing when spring renews the plain ; ' ) 
To him they cry, in winter's pinching reign ; / 
Nor is their musio> nor their plaint in vain : i 
He hears the ge^y, and the distre^ul call ; 

And with unbaring bounty, fills them all." 
ft ** Observe the rising lily's snowy grace ; 
Obftrv« tke vmriow vo^^^ttUt 

They ndther toil, nor spin, but careless grow ; 
Yet see how warm they blush !. how bright they glow 
What regal vestments can witli them compare f 
What long so shining! or what queen so &ir!" 

''If ceaseless, thus, the fowls of heav'n he feeds ; 

If o'er the fields such lucid robes he spreads } 

WUl he not care for you, ye faithless, say? 

Is^be unwise ? or, are ye less than they 2*^— raoifsoil. 


The death of a ^ood man a strong incentwe to vitiue, 

THE chamber where the good man meets his fate, 
Is privileged beyond the common walk 
Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heav'h. 
Fly, ye profane ! if not, draw near with awe, 
Receive the blessing, and adore the chance. 
That threw in this Bethesda your disease : 
If unrestor'd by this, despair your cure. 
For, here, resistless demonstration dweUs ; 
A death-bed^s a detector of the heart 
Here tir'd dissimulation drops her mask, 
Thro* life's grimace, that mistress of the scene! 
Here real, and apparent, are the same. 
You seethe man ; you see his hold on heav'n, 
If sound his virtue, as Philander's sound. 

Heav'n waits not the last moment ; owns her friends 
On this side death, and points them out to men ; 
A lecture, silent, but of sov'reign pow'r; ' 
To vice, confusion : and to virtue, peace. 

Whatever farce the boastful hero piays, 
Virtue alone has majesty in death ; 
And greater still, the more the tyrant frowns. — ^Touira 


Rejections on a future state^from a review of winter. 
'fTllS done ! dread winter spreads his latest glooms, 
JL And reign^ tremendous o'er the c.onquerM year. 
How dead the vegetable kingdom lies ! 
How dumb the tuneful ! Horror wide extends 
His desolate domain. Behold, fond man ! 
See here thj pictured life : pass some few years. 
Thy flow'nng spring, thy summer's ardent strength. 
Thy sober autumn ^ding into age, 
And pale concluding winter comes at last, 
And shuts the scone. 

190 T!ie English Reader. Part fl 

ft Ah! whither now are fled 

Those dreams of greatness ? those unsolid hopes 
Of happiness ? those longfbgs after fame ? 
Those restless cares ? those busy bustling days ? 
Those gay -spent, festive nights ? those veering thoughts^ 
Lost between good and ill, that shar'd thy life ? 

8 All now are vanish'd ! Virtue sole survives, 

Inamortal, never-failing friend of man. 

His guide to happiness on high. And see ! 

'Tis come, the^lorious mom t the second birth 

Of heav'n and earth ! awak'ning nature hears 

The new*-creating word, and starts to life. 

In evVy heighten 'd form', from pain and death 

Forever free. The great eternal scheme, 
. Involving all, and in a perfect whole 

Uniting as the prospect widei' spreads, 

To ireason^s eye reon^d clears up apace. 
4 Ye vainly wise ! Ye blind presumptuous ! no ir 

Confounded in the dust, adore that Powec^ 

And Wisdom, oft arraignM : see now the cause 

'Why unassuming worm in secret liv'd, 

Ana died neglected : why the good man^s shart 

In life was gall, and bitterness of soul : 

Why the lone widow and her orphans, pin'd 

In starving solitude^ while luxury. 

In palaces lay strainmg her low thought, 

To form unreal wants : why heav'n-bom truth, 

And moderation fair, wore the red marks 

Of superstition's scourge : why license pain, 

Thdt cruel spoiler, that embosfnn'd foe, 

Imbitter'd all our bliss. 
9 Ye good distress'd 

Ye noble few ! who here unbending stand 

Beneath life's pressure, yet bear up awhile, ^ 

And what your bounded view which only saw V 

A little part, deem'd evil, is no more : 

Thestormsof K^nt'ry time will quickly pass. 

And one unbounded spring encircle all. — thomsok 

AdanCs advice to Eve, to avoid iemptahon. 

^ f\ ^^^^^) best are aU things as the will 

ViF Of God ordain'd them ; his creating hand 
Nothing imperfect or deficient left 
Of all that lie created, much Ic^s man. 
Or aught that might his hapoy state setur ^ 

Ckap. S. E>idaciie fieee$ IST 

Secare firotai outnnard foree. Within hiniMlf 
The daacer Bes, yet lies within his pow'r : 
Against his wiU he can receive no harm. 

S Bat Go4 M f^ the will ; for what obeys 
Reason, is free, and reason he made right ; 
But bid her well beware, and still erect, 
Lest, by some fair appearing good surpris'd. 
She dictate false, and misinform the will 
To do what €k)d expressly hath forbid. 
Not then mistrust, but tender love, enjoins 
That 1 should mind thee oft : and mind thou Qai 

S F^rm we subsist, yet possible to swerve, 
Since reason not impossibly may meet 
Some specious object by the foe suborned, 
And fall into deception unaware, 
Not keeping strictest watch, as she was wam'tt. 
Seek not temptation then, which to avoid 
Were better, and most likely if from me 
Thou sever not ; trial will come unsought. 

4 Wouldst thou approve thy constancy ? approve 
First thy obedience ; th' other who can know. 
Not seemgthee attempted, who attest? 
But if thou think, trial unsought may find 
Us both securer than thus warn'd thou seem'st. 
Go; for thy stay^ not free, absents thee more : 
Go in thy native innocence ; rely 
On what thou hast of virtue, summon all ; 
For God towards thee hath done his part ; do thine;" 



(hi procrastination, 

BE wise to-day ; 'tis madness to defer i 
Next day the fatal precedent will plead ; 
Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of lite. 
Procrastination is the thief of time, 
fear after year it steals, till all are fled ; 
And, to the mercies of a moment leaves 
The vast concerns o/ an eternal scene. 
* Of man's miraculous mistakes, this hears 
The palm, "Tiiat all men are abowtto live? " 
For ever on the brink of being born. 
All pay themselves the compliment to think, 
They one daj^ shall not drivel ; and their pride 
On this reversion, takes up ready praise ; 
At least their own : their future selves applauds ; 

198 T%€ EnglUh Reader* Part It, 

How etieeUent that life they ne'er will lead . 

Time lod^d in their own hands is folly's railt ; 

That lodg'd in fate's, to wisdom they consign; 

The thing they can't but purpose, they pof^jNHM. 

"Tis not in folly, not to scorn a fool ; 

And scarce in human wisdom to do more. 
8 All promise is poor dilatory man ; 

And that thro' ev'ry sta^e. When young, indeed, 

In full content we sometimes nobly rest, 

Unanxious for ourselves ; and only wish. 

As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. 

At thirty, man suspects himself a fool ; 

Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ; 

At fifty, chides his infamous delay ; 

Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ; 

In all the masnanimity of thought. 

Resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same. 
4 And why ? Because he thinks himself immortal. 

All men think all men mortal, but themselves ; 

Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate 

Strikes thro' their wounded hearts the sudden dread; 

But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, 

Soon close ; where, past the shaft, no trace is found. 

As from the wing no scar the sky retains ; 

The parted wave no furrow from the keel ; 

So dies in human hearts the thought of death. 

Ev'n with the tender tear which IVature sheds 

O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. — Touira 

TltatphUosophy, which stops at secondary causts^ repnvsd* 

HAPPY the man who sees a God employ'd ^ 

In all the good and ill that checker fife ! 
Resolving all events, with their effects 
And manifold results, into the will 
And arbitration wise of the Supreme. 
Did not his eye rule all things, and intend 
The least of our concerns ; (since from the least 
The greatest oft originate ;) could chance 
Find place in his dominion, or dispose 
One lawless particle to thwart his plan ; 
Then God might be surprised, and unforeseen 
Contingencc might alarm him and disturb 
The smootii and equal course of his a&ira. 
This truth, philosophy, though eagle-ey'd 
In nature's tendencies, oft o'erlooks ; 

Cli9- ^' Didactic Piecei. 199 

And haTing found his instrumeDt, forgets 
Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still, 
Denies toe pow'r that wields it. God proclaims 
His hot displeasure aeainst foolish men 
fHiat Ive an atheist me : involves the heav'n 
In tempests ; quits his grasp upon the winds. 
And eives them all their fury ; bids a plague 
Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin, 
And putrefy the breath of blooming health ; 

S He calls for famine, and the meagre fiend 
Blows mildew from between his shrivel d Ii[)s, 
And taints the golden ear ; he springs his mines, 
And desolates a nation at a blast : 
Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tells 
Of homo^eneal and discordant springs 
And principles ; of causes, how they work 
By necessary laws their sure effects. 
Of action and re-action. 

I He has found 

The source of the disease that nature feels ; 
And bids the world take heart and bani«h fear.' 
Thou fool ! will thy discovery of the cause 
Suspend th' effect, or heal it f Has not God 
Still wrought by means since first he made the world ? 
And did he not of o d employ his means 
To drown it ? What is his creation less 
Than a capacious reservoir of means, 
Form'd for his use, and ready at his will ? 
Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve ; ask of him, 
Or ask of whomsoever he has taught ; 
And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. 


Jndignani setUimenU on national prejiidices arid htxivd ; mtd 

on slavery. 

|H, for a lodge in some vast wilderness. 
Some boundless contiguity of shade, 
Where rumour of oppression and deceit. 
Of unsuccessful or successful war, 
Might never reach me more ! My ear is pain'd, 
My soul is sick with ev'ry day's report 
Of wrong and outrage with which earth is fill'd. 
There is no fiesh in man's obdurate heart ; 
It does not feel for man. The natural bond 
Of brotherhood is sever'd, as the fiax 
That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 


900 The English Reader. Fori Mm 

% He finds hiii feUow ^Ity of a skia 
Not colour'd like his own ; and haTJne pow*r 
T* enforce the wrong, for such a wortny cause 
Dooms and devotes mm as his lawful prey. 
Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
Abhor each other. Mountains interpos'd, 
Make enemies of nations, who had else, 
Like kindred drops, been mingled into one* 

8 Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys ; 
And worse than all, and most to be deplor d, 
As human nature's broadest, foulest blot. 
Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 
With stripes, that mercy, with a Weeding hearty 
Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. 

4 Then what is man ! And what man seeing this, 
And having human feelings, does not blush 
And hang his head, to think himself a man ? 
I would not have a slave to till my ground, 
To carry me, to fan me while I sleep. 
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 
That sinews bought and sold have ever eam'd. 

d No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 
Just estimation priz'd above all pnce ; 
1 had much rather be myself the slave. 
And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 
We have no slaves at home — then why abroad ? 
And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave 

^ That parts us, are emancipate and loos'd. 

6 Slaves cannot breathe in Kncland : if their lungs 
Receive our air, that momeffiit they are free ; 
They touch our country, and their shackles falL 
That|s noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 
And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then. 
And let it circulate through ev'ry vein 
Of all your empire ; that where Britain's power 
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. — cowpeiu 


Tht morning in summer. 

THE meek-ey'd morn appears, mother of dews, 
At first faint gleaming in the dappled east ; 
Till far o'er ether spreads the wid'ning glow ;, 
And from before theiustre of her fa^e 

€!hap. 4. Descriptive Piecee. SOI 

White break the ciuuds away. With quicken'd stepi 

Brown night retires : young day pours in apace, 

And opens all the lawny prospect wide. 
ft The dripping rock, the mountsdn's misty top, 

Swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn. 

£ »ip thro* the dusk, the smoking currents shine; 

AM (lomthe bladed field, the fearful hare 

I^imps, awkward : While along the forest-glade 

The wild deer trip, and often turning gaze 

At early passenger. Music awakes 

The native voice of vrdbsembled joy ; 

And thick around the woodland hymns arise. 
S Rous'd by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd leave* 

His mossy cottige, where with peace tie dweUi; 

And from the crowded fold, in order, drives 

His flock to taste the verdure of the morn. 
Falsely luxurious, will not man awake ; 

And, sprindng from t^e bed of sloth, enjo 

The cool, the fragrant, and the silent hoiir, 

To meditation due and sacred song ? 
4 For is tliere aught in sleep can charm the witt ? 
. To lie in dead oblivion, losing half 

The fleeting moments of too shor|;^ life ; 

Total extinction of th' enlightened soul ! 
\ Or else to feverish vanity alive, ' 
f "^ilder'd, and tossing thro' distemper'd dreami ? 

Who would, in such a gloomy state, remain 
< Longer than nature craves ; when evVy muse 
^ And every blooming pleasure, waits without, ^ 

To bless the wildly devious morning walk ? - THOXtda 

Rural sounds^ as weU as rural sights, ddigJUfuL 

NOR rural sights alone, but rural sounds 
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore 
1 The tone of hmguid nature. Mighty winds, 
{ That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood, 
J Of ancient growth, make music, not unlike 
' The dash of ocean on his winding shore. 

And lull the spirit while they fill the mind, 
, UnnumberM branches waving in the blast, 

And ail their leaves fast flutt'nng all at once. 
H Nov less composure waits upon the roar . 
Of distant floods ; or on the seftcjr voice 
Of neighb'ring fountain ; or/)f rills that slip 
Through the eleft rock, and. chiming; as they M 

S02 The EngKth Reader. Part 2. 

Upon loose pebbles, lose theinselres at length 
In matted grass, that with a livelier green, 
Betrays the secret of their silent course. 
Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds ; 
But animated nature sweeter still. 
To sooth and satisfy tho humaq ear. 

S Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one , 
The live-lone night. Nor these alone, whose note* 
Nice finder *a art must emulate in vain. 
But cawing rooksj and kites that swim sublime, 
In still repeated circles, screaming loud ; 
The* jay, the pye, and ev'n the boding owl, 
That ifols the rising moon, have charms for me. 
Sounds inharmonious in themselves, and harsh. 
Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, 
And only there, please highly for their sake. — cowpxh 


TAf rose, 

THE rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower. 
Which Mary to Anna convey'd ; 
The plentiful moisture encumberM the flower, 
And weighM down its beautiful head 

t The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet, 

And It seem'd to a fanciful view,r 
.;* To weep for the buds it had left with regret. 

On the flourishing bush where it grew. 

5 I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was 

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd ; 
And swinein^ it rudely, too>udely, aiasl 
I snappM It — it fell to the ground. 

4 And such, I excldm'd, is the pitiless part 
Some act by the delicate mind ; 
Begardless of wringing and breaking a heart, 
Already to sorrow resign 'd. 

9 This elegant rose, had I shaken it less. 

Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile : 
And the tear that is wip'd with a little address. 
Maybe followed perhaps by a smile. — cowfxr. 


Cart of birds for their young, 

AS thus the patient dam assiduotfr sits, 
Notto be tempted from her tender twdi^ 

Chap. 4. Descriptive Pieces. 908 

Or by sharp nunger, or by smooth delieht, 
l^o^^thc whole loosen'd spring around ner blows, 
Her sympathmng partner takes his stand 
High on th' opponent bank, and ceaseless sings 
The tedious tune away ; or el^e supplies 
Her place a moment, while she sudden flits* 
To pick the scanty meal. 

S Th' appointed time 

"With pious toil fuIfiOM, the callow young, 
Warm'd and expanded into perfect life, 
Their brittle bondage break, and come to light ; 
A helpless family, demanding food 
With constant clamour. O what passions then, 
"What melting sentiments of kindly care, . 
On the new parents seize ! 

S Away they fly 

Affectionate, and undesiring bear 
The most delicious morsel to their young ; 
Which equally distributed, again 
; The search begins. Even so « gentle pair, 
By fortune sunk, but form'd of een'rous mould. 
And charm'd with cares beyond the vulgar breast, 
In some lone cot amid the distant woods. 
Sustained alone by providential Heav*n, 
Oft, as they weeping eye their infant train, 
Check theu* own appetites, and give them all* THomON. 


Liberty and Slavery contrasted. Part of a letter tmittrnifiom 

Italy, hy Addison. 

HOW has kind Heav'nadorn'd this happy land. 
And scattered blessings with a wasteful hand ! 
But what avail her unexhausted stores. 
Her blooming mountains, and her sunny shores. 
With all the gifts that heav'n and earth impart, 
The smiles of nature, and the charms of art, 
While proud oppression in her valleys reigns, 
And tyranny usurps her .happy plains ? 
Th(i poor inhabitant befiiolas in vain 
The 1 edd'niug orange, and the swelling grain ; 
Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines, 
And in the myrtle's fragrant shade, repines. 
£ Oh, Liberty, thou pow'r supremely bright, 
Frofuse of'bfiss, and pregnant witl) delight I 
Per(}etual pleasures in thy presence rei^ 
^ And ar.iSim; nlentf leadi tkj w.antOM tnku 

204 The English Reader, Fart 2. 

EasM of her load, subjection grows more light, 
4nd poverty looks cheerful in tlijr sight. 
Thou mak^st the gloomy face of nature gay ; 
Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day. 
On foreign mountains, may the sun refine 
The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine : 
. With citron groves adorn a distant soil, 
And the fat olive swell w^ith floods of oil : 
We envy not the warmer clime that lies 
In ten degrees of more indulgent skies ; 
Nor at the coarseness of our heav'n repine, 
Tho* o'er our heads thfj frozen Pleiads shine : 
'Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's isle. 
And makes her barren rocks, and her bleak mountains smile. 


€!karity, A paraphrase on tJie 13tk chapter ofthejirri tpisOM 

to ike, Corinthians. 

DID sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue, 
Than ever man pronounc'a or angel sung ; 

Had I all knowledge, human and divine, 

That thought can reach, or science can define ; 

And had I pow'r to give that knowledge birth, 

In all the speeches of the babbling eastn ; 

Did Shadrach's zeal my glowing^oreast inspire, 

To » weary tortures, and rejoice m fire ; 

Or had I faith like that which Israel saw. 

When Mo«es gave them miracles, and law 

Yet, gracious charity, indulgent guest. 

Were not thy power exerted in my breast ; 

Those speeches would send up unheeded pray'r ; 

That scorn of life, would be but wild despair : 

A cymbal's sound were better than my voice ; 

My faith were form ; my eloquence were noise. 
2 Cnarity, decent, modest, easy, kind. 

Softens the high, and rears the abject mind ; 

Knows with just reins, and gentle hand, to guide 

Between vile shame, and arbitrary pride. 

Not soon provok'd, she easily forgives ; 

An(} much she suffers, as she much believes. 

Soft peace she brings wherever she arrives ; n 

She builds our quiet, as she forms our lives ; 

Lays the rough "paths of peevish nature ^ven; 

And opens in each h^art a little heav'n. 
S Each other gift, which Godoa man bestows, 

Its proper bounds, and due restriction Imows ; 

Ckmp* 4. Detcrtptive Fitee»» 909 

To one ftx*d pufpose dedicates its powV, ! 

And finishing its act, exists no more. ! 

Thus, in obedience to what Heav'n decrees, 

Knowledge shall fail, a«d prophecy shall cease \ 

But lasting charity's more ample sway, ^ 1 

Nor bound by time, nor subject to decay, ■ '" 

In happy triumph shall for ever live ; 

And endless good diffuse, and endless priust reeebv 

4 As through the artist's intervening glass. 
Our eye observes the distant planets pass ; 
A little we discover ; but allow, ' 

l^liat more remains unseen, than art can show ; 
So whilst^our mind its knowledge would improve^ 
(Its feeble eye intent on things above,) 
High as we may, we Hft our reason up. 
By faith directed, and confirm 'd by hope ; 
Yet are we able only to survey, 
Dawnings of beams, and promises of day ; 
Heav'n's fuller effluence mocks our dazzled sight) 
Too great its swiftness, and too strong its light. 

5 But soon the mediate clouds shall be dispell'd ; 
The Sun shall soon be face to face beheld, 

In all his robes, ^vith alt his glory on. 
Seated sublime on his meridian throne. 
Then constant faith, and holy hope, shall die $ 
One lost in certainty, and one in joy : 
Whilst thou, more riappy pow*r,'fair charity. 
Triumphant sister, greatest of the three, 
Thy otnce, and thy nature still the same. 
Lasting thy lamp, and unconsum'd thy flame, 
Shalt still survive — 

Shalt stand before the host of heav'n confest, 
1 For ever blessing, and for ever blest. — PEioSk 


Picture of a good man. 

SOME angel guide my pencil} while I draw, 
What nothing else tnan angel can exceei^ 

A man on earth, devoted to the skies ; 
' Like ships at sea, while in, above the world. 
n With aspect mild, and elevated eye. 

Behold him seated on a mount serene. 

Above the fogs of sense, and passion's storm c 

All the black cares, and tumults of this life. 

Like harmless thunders, breaking at tui letC 

fixcite hi* pity, not impahr hi0 peace. 


206 The English Reader. PartV 

% Earth's geniune sods, the sceptred, and the slaTe, 
A mingled mob ! a wand'rioff herd! he sees, 
Bewilder'd in the yale ; in allunlike ! 
His full reverse in all ! What higher praise ? 
What stronger demonstration of the right? 
The present all their eare ; the future his. 
When public welfare calls, or private want. 
They give to fame ; his bount; he conceals. 
Their virtues varnish nature ; nis exalt 
Mankind's esteem they court ; and he his own. 

8 Theirs the wild chas^ of false felicities ; 
His,thecomposM possession of the true. 
Alike througliout is his consistent piece, 
All of one colour, and an even thread ; 
While party-colour'd shades of happiness. 
With hideous gaps between, patch up for them 
A madman's robe ; each pu^ of fortune blows 
The tatters by, and shows their nakedness. 

4 He se^s with other eyes than theirs : where they 
Behold a sun, he spies a Deity ; 

What makes tliem only smile, makes him adore. 
Where they see mountains, he but atoms sees ; 
An empire m his balance, weighs a erain. 
They things terrestrial worship as aiyine : 
His hopes immortal blow them by, as dust. 
That dims his si^ht and shortens his survey. 
Which longs, in infinite, to lose all bound. 

5 Titles and honours, f if they prove his fate,] 
He lays aside to find his dignity ; 

No dignity they find in aught besides. 
They triumph in externals, (which conceal 
Man's real glory,) proud of an eclipse : 
Himself too much he prizes to be proud ; 
And nothing thinks so great in man, as man. 
Too dear he holds his interest, to neglect 
Another's welfare, or his right invade ; 
Their int'rest, like a Hon, lives on prey. 

6 They kindle at the shadow of a wrong ; 
Wrong he sustains with temper, looks on heav'ii. 
Nor. stoops to think his injurer his foe : 

Nought, out what wounds his virtue, wounds hispeaeew 
A cover'd heart their character defends ; 
A covered heart denies him half his praise. 

7 With nakedness his innocence agrees ! 
While their broad foUagft taftite* their fall! 


• 4. Deicriptive Piecc9, Tfff 

nrhere no joys end, where his full feast begins : 

H is j ys create, theirs murder, future blies. 

1*0 triMmph in existence, his alone ; 

A^nd his alone triumphantly to think 

His true existence is not yet begun. 

His glorious course was, yesterday, complete: 

Death, then, was welcome; yet life still is sweet — ^touzw 


Tkt pleasures ofreHrement 

OKNEW he but his happiness, of men . 
The happiest he! who, farfron:: public rage, 
Deep in the vale, with a choice few retir'd. 
Drinks the pure pleasures of the rural life. • 

fi What tho' the dome be wanting, whose proud gate, 
£ach morning, vomits out the sneaking crowd 
Of flatterers mlse, and in their turn abusM ? 
Vile intercourse ! "What though the glitt'ring robe. 
Of ev'ry hue reflected light can give. 
Or floated loose, or stiff with mazy gold, 
The pride and gaze of fools, oppress hin^ not ? 
What tho', from utmost land and sea purvey 'd« 
For him each rarer tributary life 
Bleeds not, and his insatiate table heaps 
With luxury and death ? What tho' his bowl 
Flames not with costly juice ; nor sunk in beds, 
Oft of gay care, he tosses out the night. 
Or melts the thoughtless hours in idle state ? 
What tho' he knows not those fantastic joys, 
That still amuse the wanton, still deceive ; 
A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain ; 
Their hollow moments undelighted all ? 
Sure peace is his ; a solid life estrang'd 
To disappointment, and fallacious hope. 

S Rich in content, in nature's bounty rich, 
In lic.ibg and fruits ; whatever greens the spring, 
Whi^n heaven descends in showers ; or bends the bough 
When summer reddens, and when autumn beams : 
Or ill tlif. wintry glebe whatever lies 
Cotic(*al"d, and fattens with the richest sap : 
These are not wanting ; nor the milky drove, 
Luxuriant, spread o'er all the lowinpj vaie ; 
!Vi< r bh^ating mountains ; nor the chide of stream!. 
And hum of bees, inviting sleeo sincere 

308 The English Reader. Part t 

Into the guiltlesB breast, beneath the shade, 
Or thrown at large amid the fragrant hay ; 
Nor aughtjbesides of prospect, grove, or song, 
Dim grottos, gleaming lakes, and fountains dea^ 

Here too dwells simple truth ; plain innocence ; 
Unsullied beauty ; sound unbroken youth, 
Patient of labour, with a little pleased ; 
Health ever blooming ; unambitious toil ; 
Cairn contempkitfon, and poetic ease. — thomsqii. 


The pUasvre and bentjit of an improved and vkU-diirttUd 


OH ! blest of Heaven, who not the languid songi 
Of luxury, the siren ! not the bribes 
Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils 
Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave 
Those ever blooming sweets, which, from the stor* 
Of nature, fair imagination culls. 
To charm th' enliven'^! toul ! What tho* not all 
Of mortal offspring catt attain the height 
Of envied life; tho' onl^few possess 
Patrician treasures, or imperial state ; 
Yet nature's care, to all her children just, 
With richer treasures, and an ampler state, 
Endows at large whatever happy man 
Will deign to use them; 

2 His the city's pomp, 

The rural honours his. Whatever adorns 
The princely dome, the column, and the arch, 
The breathing marble and the sculpturM gold. 
Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, 
His tuneful breast enioys. For him, the spring 
Distils her dews, and from the silken gem 
its lucid leaves unfolds : for him, the hand 
Of autumn tinges every fertile branch 
With blooming gold, and blushes like the mom. 
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wingi : 
And still new beauties meet bis lonelv walk, 
And loves unfelt attract him. 

Not a breeze 
Flies o'er the meadow ; not a cloud irabibei 
The setting sun's effulgence ; not a strain 
From all the tenants of the warbling shade 
Aseands • but wheiMe \m \Mmom can oartalM 

Chap. 5. Pathetic Pieces. 209 

Fresh pleaiure, unrepror'dL Nor thence partilM 

Freih pteatare only ; for th' attenttre mind* 

By this harmoBious action on her powers, 

Becomes herself harmonious : wont so oft 

In outward things to meditate the charm 

Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home, 

To find a kindred order ; to exert 

Within herself this elegance of lore, 

This fadr inspir'd delight : her temper'd pow'n 

Refine at length, and every passion wears 

A chaster, muder, more attractive mien. 

4 But if to ampler prospects, if tq gaze 
On nature's form, where, negligent of all 
These lesser graces, she assumes the port 
Of that Eternal Majesty that weigh'd 

The world's foundations, if to these the mind 

Exalts her daring eye ; then mightier far 

Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms 

Of servile custom cramp her gen'rous pow'rs ? 

Would sordid policies, the barb'rous growth 

Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down 

To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear ? 

5 Lo ! she appeals to nature, to the winds 

And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course, 

The elements and seasons : all decJare 

For what th' eternal maker has ordain'd 

The pow'rs of man : we feel within ourselve* 

His energy divine ; he tells the heart. 

He meant, be made us to behold and love 

What he beholds and loves, the gtneml orb 

Of life and being ; to be great like Him, 

Beneficent and active. Thus the men 

Whom nature's works instruct, with God himswf 

Hold converse ; grow familiar, day by day. 

With his conceptions ; actjipon his plan ; •• 

And form to his, the relishn)f their souls.— axxf IIP Jt 

A T the ctose of the day, when the hamlet is still, 
Cm. And mortals the sweets Of forgetfulness prove 
When nought but the torrent is heard on theiiill. 
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grow 


ziu 2 Ae nngUMa neaaer jrari z. 

fTwBS fbxm by the cavie of the moiuitaiti al^^ 
While his narp ruoe symphonious, a hermit bcsan 

No more with himaeli or with nature at war, 
He thought as a sage, tho' he felt as a man* 

£ ^ Ah ! why, all aliaiHlon'd to darkness and wo ; 

Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall ? 
Por spring shall return, and a lover bestow, 

And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthral. 
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay ; 

Mourn, sweetest complaiuer, man calls thee to moum. 
O sooth him whose pleasures like thine pass away : 

Full quickly they pass — but they never return. 

9 **Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky. 

The moon half extinguish 'd, her crescent displayt x 
But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high 

She shone, and the planetswere lost in her blaze. 
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue 

The path that conducts thee to splendour again : 
But man's faded glory what change shall renew ! 

Ah fool ! to exult m a glory so vain ! 

4 "'TIS night, and the landscape is lovely no more : 

I mourn ; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you ; 
For mom is approaching, your charms to restore, 

Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with c'^ew 
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn ; 

Kind nature the embryo blossom will save : 
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn ! 

O when shall oay dawn on the night of the grave! 

5 "TTwas thus by the ^lare of false science betray 'd, 

That leads, to bewilder, and dazzles, to blind ; 
My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shad^i^ 

Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 
P pity, great Father of light, then I cried. 

Thy creature who fain would not wander from thee ! 
Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride: 

From doubt and<from darkness thou only canst free. 
B ^And darkness and doubt, are now flying away ; 

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn : 
So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, 

The bright and the balm^ effulgence or morn. 
See truth, love, and mercy, in triumph descending. 

And na^ture all glowing m Eden's nrst bloom ! 
On the cold cheek of de&th^miles and roses are blending, 

And beauty immortal, awakes from the tomb." 


__ ._ . ... ._ ... _ _, ^^^ 

Chap. 5. Pathetic Pi0ce9. til 


The beggar*s petition. 

PITY the sorrows of a poor old maoi) 
Whose trembling Ihnbs have borne him to yourtj^or 
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span ; 
Oh ! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. 

S These tatter'd dothes my poverty bespeak ; 

These hoary locks, proclaim my lengthei:)'d yearn ; 
And many a furrow in my grief- worn clieek, 
Has been the channel to a flood of tears. 

5 Yon house, erected on the rising ground, 

With tempting aspect drew me from my road ; 
For plenty there a residence has found, 
And grandeur a magnificent abode. 

4 Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor ! 
Here, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread, 
A. pamper'd menial drove me from the door, 
\ To seek a shelter in an humbler shed. 

I Oh ! take me to your hospitable dome ; 

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold I 
Short is my passage to tiie friendly tomb ; 
For I am poor, and miserably old. 

6 Should I reveal the sources of my grief, 

If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast, 
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief; 
And tears of pity, would not be represt. 

7 Heav'n sends misfortunes ; why should we repine f 

'Tis Heav'n has brought me to the state you see 
And your condition may be soon like mine, 
The child of sorrow and of misery. 

8 A little farm was my paternal lot ; 

Then, like the lark, 1 sprightly hail'd the mom 5 
But ah ! Oppression forc'd me from mj*^ cot, 
My cattle died, and blighted was my com. 

9 My daughter, once the comfort of my age, 

Lur'd by a villain from her native home. 

Is cast abandoned on the world s wide stage, 

And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam. 

10 My tender wife, sweet soother of my care ! 

Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree. 
Fell, ling'ring.fell, a victim to despair ; 
And left the world to wretchedness and raa 

212 The Engiish Reader. Pari 3. 

11 Pity the lorrows of a poor old man, 

Whose trembling limbs have borne htm to your door ; 
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span : 
Oh ! give relief, and Heav'n will bless your store. 


Unhappy dose of life, 

HOW shocking must thy summons be^ O Death ! 
. To him that is at ease in his possessions ! 

Who, counting on long years of pleasure here, 

Is quite unfurnish'd for tlie world to come ! 

In mat dread moment, how the frantic soul 

Raves round the walls of her clay tenement ; 

Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help ; 

But shrieks in vain ! How wishfully she looks 
' On all she's leaving, now no longer hers ! 
f A little longer ; yet a little longer ; 

O might she stay to wash away her stains ; 

And nt her for her passage! Mournful sight! 

Her very eyes weepj blood ; and ev'ry groan 

She heaves is big with horror. But the foe. 

Like a staunch murd'rer, steady to his purpose 

Pursues her close, thro' ev'ry lane of lire ; 

Nor misses once the track ; but presses on, 

Till, forc'd at last to the tremendous verge, 

At once she sinks to everlasting ruin. — r. blair. 


Megy to pity, 

HAIL, lovely pow'r ! whose bosom heaves the sigh. 
When fancy paints the scene of deep distress ; 
Whose tears, spontaneous, crystallize the eye, 
When rigid rate, denies the pow'r to bless. 

S Not all the sweets Arabia's gales convey 

From flow'ry meads, can with that sigh compare ; 
Not dew-drops glitt'ring in the morning ray. 
Seem near so oeauteous as that falling tear. 

S Devoid of fear, the fawns around thee play ; 
Emblem of peace, the dove before thee flies ; 
No blood-stain 'd traces, mark thy blameless wiff ; 
Beneath thy feet, no hapless insect dies. 

i Come, lovely nymph, and range the mead with me. 
To spring the partridge from the j^ileful foe : 
From secret snares the struggling bird to free ; 
And stop the hand uprais^oto give the blow. 


Ckap. 9. PaikeiU Fie€e§. t 

S And when the air with heat meridian gbw^ 

And nature droops beneath the conqu'ring g;leam, 
Let us, slow wand'nnff where the current flows, 
* Save sinking flies that float along the stream 

• Or turn to nobler, greater tasks thy care, 
To me thy sympathetic ^fts^ impart : 
Teach me in friendship's griefs to near a share, 
And justly boast the gen'rous feeling heart 

7 Teach me to sooth the helpless orphan's grief; 
With timely aid, the widow's woes assuage ; 
To misery's moving cries to yield relief: 
And be the sure resource of drooping age. 

ft So when the genial spring of life shall fade, 
And sinking nature own the dread decay, 
Some soul congenial then may lend its aia. 
And gild the close of life's eventfid day. 


Venu supposed to he toritten hv Alexander Selkirk, during hi§ 
itMtary abode in ihe bland of Juan Femandu, 

I AM monarch of all I survey. 
My right there is none to dispute ; 
FVom the centre all round to the sea, 
I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 
Oh solitude ! where are the charms^ 
That sages have seen in thy face r 
Better dwell in the midst of alarms, 
Than reign in this horrible place. 

£ I am out of humanity's reach ; 

I must finish my journey alone ; 
Never hear the sweet music of speech ; 

I start at the sound of my own. 
The beasts that roam over the plain. 

My form with indifference see : 
They are so unacc^uainted with mai^ 

Their taraeness is shocking to me. 

5 Society, friendship, and love, 

Divinely bestow'd upon man, 
Oh had 1 the wines of a dove. 

How soon would I taste you again I 
My sorrows I then nu^ht assuage 

In the ways of religion and truth } 
Might learn from the wisdom of arey 

Aod be eheer'd by the sallies of ▼outh 

214 I'he English JUaO^r. Fart S 

4 B«}igion ! what treasure untold. 

Resides in that heavenly word ! 
More precious than silver or g<>ld, , 

Or all that this earth can anord. 
But the sound of the church* going bell, 

These vallies and rocks never heard \ 
Ne'er si^h'd at the sound of a knell, 

Or smil'd when a sabbath ^ppearM. 

5 Fe winds that have made me your sport 

Convey to this desolate shore, 
BMae cordial endearing report 

Of a land I shall visit no more. 
liy friends, do they now and then send 

A wish or a thought after me ? 
O tell me I yet have a friend. 

Though a friend! am never to see. 

6 How fleet is a glance of the mind ! 

Compared with the speed of its flight, 
The tempest itself lags behind, 

And the swift- winged arrows of light. 
When 1 think of my own native land. 

In a moment I seem to be there ; 
But, alas ! recollection at hand. 

Soon hurries me back to despair. 

7 But the sea-fowl is gone X(i her nest, 

The beast is laid down in his lair ; 
,Even here is a season of rest. 

And I to my cabin repair. 
There's mercy in every place : 

And mercy — encouraging thought ! 
Crives even affliction a grace. 
And reconciles man to his lot. — cowpsr. 



WHEN all thy mercies, O my God ! 
My risins soul surveys. 
Transported with the view, I'm lost 
In wonder, love, and praise 

£ O how shall words, with equal warmth, 
The gratitude declare. 
That glows within my ravishM heart ? 
But thou canst read it there. 

Thy providence my life sustained, 
And all my wants redrett, 


Clap. 5. PatJutie Piece: > 316 

When m the nuent womb I lay. 
And hung upon the breast 

4 To all my weak complaints and cnes, 
Thy mercy lent an ear, 
Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learned, 
To form themselves in pray*r. 

I Unnumbered comforts to my soul, 
Thy tender care bestow'd, 
Before my infant heart conceiv'd 

From whom those comforts ^ow'dL 

6 When, in the slipp*ry paths of youth, 

With heedless steps, I ran, 
Thine arm, unseen, convey'd me lalt^ 
And led me up to man. 

7 Through hidden dangers, toils, and dfeatfii^ 

It gently clear'd my way ; 
And through the pleasing snares of vice, 
More to b^fear'd than they. 

8 When worn with sickness, oft hast thou. 

With health renew'd my face ; 
And, when in sins and sorrows sunk, 
Reviv'd my soul with grace. 

9 Thy bounteous hand, with worldly bfii% 

Has made my cup run o'er ; 
And, in a kind and faittiful friend, 
Has doubled all my store. 

Ten thousand, thousand precious giAi, 
,My daily thanks employ ; 
Nor is the least a cheerful heart, 
That tastes those ^fts with joy. 

11 Through ev'ry period of my life. 

Thy goodness Til pursue ; 
And, after death, in distant worlds. 
The glorious theme renew. 

12 When nature fails, and day and nigfat 

Divide thy works no more, 
My ever-grateful heart, O Lord ! 
Thy mercy shall adore. 

18 Through all eternity, to thee, 
A joyful song IH raise j 
For O ! eternity's too short 

To utt«r aU tliy pndM»-— Aomvoib 

ai6 fU BngiUk Reader. Pmit. 


A meti perishing in the snow ; from whfncs r^/Udions mm 

raised on the miseries of life, 

AS thus the snows arise ; and' foul and fiero^ 
All winter drives alone the darken^ air ; 
In his own loose-reyolving field, the swain 
Disaster^ stands •; sees other hills ascend, 
Of unknown joyless orow ; and other scene% 
Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain ; 
Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid 
Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders oi^ 
From hill to dale, still more and more astray ( 
Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps. 
Stung with the thoughts of home ; the thouehte of; 
Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour form 
In many a vain attempt 
t How sinks his soul ! 

What black despair, what horror fills his heart ! 
When, for the ausky spot, which faricy feiga'd 
His tufted cottage rising through the soow, 
He meets the rouzhness of the middle waste, 
Far from the track, and blest abode of man ; 
While round him night redstless closes fast. 
And ev'ry tempest howling o^er his head. 
Renders the savage wilderness more wild. 

3 Then throng the busy shapes iilto his mind. 
Of cover'd^piti, unfktnomably deep|» 
A dire descent, beyond the pow'r or fioit ! 
Of faithless bogs : of precipices huge. 
Smoothed up witnsnow ; and what is fend, unlmoimy 
What water, of the still unfrozen spring, 
In the loose marsh or solitary lake^ 
Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boll. 

4 These check his fearful steps ; and down 
Beneiith the shelter of the shapeless drifl, 
Thinking overall the bitterness of death, 
MixM with the tender anguish nature shoots 
Throu{i;h the wrung bosom of the dying ma«, 
His wife, his children, and his frienas unseflo. 

5 In vain for him th^ofiicious wife prepares 
The fire fair-blazing;;, and the vestment warm ; 
In vain his little children, peeping out 
Into the minded storm, demand their sire, 
With tears of artless innocence. Alas ! 
Nor wife nor ehydreiii more shall he behold I 

Ckap. 5.. Pathetic Piete: SIT 

Nor friends, nor fntcred home. On erery nenrt 
The deadly winter seizes ; sbuts up sense ; 
And, o'er bis inmost vitals creepins cold, 
Lays him along the snows a stinenM corse, 
Stretch'd out, and bleaching in the northei^ bhit 

6 Ah, little think the gay licentious proud. 
Whom pleasures, powV, and affluence surround $ 
They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth^ 
And wanton, often cruel riot, waste ; 

Ah little think they, while they dance along, 
^How many feel, this very moment, death, 
And all the sad variety or pain ! 
How many sink in the devouring flood, 
Or more devouring flame ! How many bleed. 
By shameful variance betwixt man ana man ! 

7 How many pine in want, and dungeon gloomt, 
Shut from the common air, and conomon use 
or their owniimbs ! How maay drink the cup 
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread 

Of misery ! Sore pierc'd by wintry winds. 
How many shrink into the sordid hut 
Of cheerless poverty ! How many shake 
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind. 
Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse ! 
a How many, racked with honest passions, droop* 
In deep retirM distress ! How many stand 
Around the death-bed of their dearest friend^ 
And point the pai ting anguish ! Thought, fond 
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills, 
That one incessant struggle render life, 
One'scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate. 
Vice in his high career would stand appall'd. 
And heedless rambling inpp alse learn to think ; 
The conscious lieart o» charity would wann. 
And her wide wish benevolence dilate ;• 
The social tear wouM rise, the social sign , 
And into clear ptTfecl :on, gradual bliss. 
Refining still, tlie social p<issions work. — thomiov* 


A m&ming hymn* 

THESE are thy glorious works, parent of good. 
Almighty, thine this universal frame. 
Thus wondrrous fair; thyself how wond'rous theft t 
Uiispeaka|>Ie, who sitt'st above these heayans^ 
T© us invisibik, or dinriy 

218 ^ The Engli$h Reader. Part Z. 

IntheM tbj lower works ; yet these declare 
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r dWina. 

£ Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, 
Angels ; for ye behold him, and with songs 
And choral symphonies, day without night. 
Circle his throne rejoicing ; ye, in heaven. 
On earth, join all ye creatures to extol 
Him first/Him last. Him midst, and without end. 
Fairest of stars, last m the train of night. 
If better thou belong not to the dawn. 
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smilinc mom 
With thy oright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, 
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 
Thou sun, of this great world, both eve and soul. 
Acknowledge him thy greater, sound his praise 
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st. 
And when high noon hast gain d, and when thou fallt't. | 

5 Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly 'st, 
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies ; 
And ye five other wand'ring flres that move 
In mystic dance, not without song, resound 
His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light. 
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth 
Of nature^s womb, that in quaternion run 
Perpetual circle^, multiform, and mix 
Ana nourish all things ; let your ceaseless change 
Vary 4;o our great maker still new praise. 

4 Ye mists and exhalattons that now rise 

From hill or steaming lake, dusky or f^ray. 

Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, 

In honour to the world's great author rise ! 

Whetlier to deck with clouds th' uncolour'd sky. 

Or wet the thirsty earth with falling show'rs. 

Rising or falling, still advance his praise. 
9 His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow, 

Breathe sort or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines, 

With ev'ry plant, in sign of worship wave. 

Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow 

Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. 

Join voices, all ye living souls ; ye birds. 

That ttngtng, up to heaven's gate ascend, 

Btar on your wings and in your notes his praise. 
• T{>^t in waters glide, and ye that walk 

Thm •arth. and stately tread, or lowly ereep ; 

WMmm ill be illent, mom or even, 

Chap. 6. PromiscuouB PieccM 919 

rTo bill, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade 

Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise. 

Hail, UNIVERSAL Lord ! he bounteous still 

To give us only good ; and if the night 

Has gather'd aught of evil^ or conceal'd. 

Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. — MiLTOVk 




Ode to content, 

OTHOU, tho nymph with placid eye ! 
O seldom found, yet ever nigh ! 
Receive my temp rate vow : 
Not all the storms that shake the pole. 
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul, 
And smooth, unaltered brow. 

2 O come, in simplest vest array'd. 
With all thy sober cheer displayed, 

To bless my longing sight ; 
Thy mien composed, thy even pace, 
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace. 
And chaste subdu'd de]%ht 
S No more by varying passions beat, 
• O gently guide my pilpim feet 
To find thy hernut ctW ; ^ 
Where in some pure and equal sky, 
Beneath thy sort indulgent eye, 
The modest virtues dwell. 
4 Simplicity, in attic vest, 
' And Innocence, with candid breast, 
And clear undaunted eye ; 
And Hope, who points to distant years, 
Fair, opening thro' this vale of tears, 
A vista to the sky. 

ft There Health , thro' whose calm bosom gli4« 
Tho temp'rate joys in even tide, 

That rarely ebb or flow ; 
And Patience tnere, thy sister meek. 
Presents her mild, unvarying cheek, 
• To meet the offer'd blow. 
<6 Her influence taught the Phrygian sags . 
A tyrant master's wanton rage, 
With settled smiles, to meet : 

IfM Tile English Reader, Pmrt %. 

Inur'd to toil and bitter bread, 

He bow'd his m^k, submitted head, 

And kiss'd thv sainted feet 
7 But thou, O nyinph, retirM and coy ! 
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy 

To tell thy tender tale ? 

The lowliest children of the ground. 
Most-rose and violet, blossom rouna, 

And lily of the vale. 
\ O say what soft propitious hour 
I best may choose to hail thy pow'r, 

And court thy gentle sway ? 
When autumn, friendly to the muse. 
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse, 

And shed thy milder day ? 
I When eve, her dewy star beneath, 
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe, 

And evVy storm is laid ? 
If such an hour was e*er thy choice. 
Oft let me hpar thy soothing voice, V . . 

Low whisp Vmg through the jfajpo,----sA&BAUX.P 

Tht shepherd and the philosopher. 

REMOTE from cities liv'd a swain, 
Unvex'd with all the carea of gain ; 

His head was silverM o'er with age. 

And long ex|^rience made him sage ; 
Jn summer's beat and winter's coif 

He fed his flock, and nenn'd the fold ; 

His hours in cheerful labour flew, 

Nor envy nor ambition knew : 

His wisdom and his honest fame^ 

Through all the conntry, rais'd his name. 
1 A deep philosopher (whose rules 

Of moral life were drawn from schools) 

The shepherd's homely cottage souj^ht, 

And thus cxplorM hfs reach of thouglit 
"Whence is thy learning? Hjith thy toil 

O'er books consumed the midnight oil ? 

Hast thou old Greece and Rome surveyed, 

And the vast sense of Plato weigh'd ? 

Hath Socrates thy soul refin'd, 

And ha«t thou fathom'd Tully's mind ? 

Or, like the wise Ulysses thrown. 

By rarious fates, on realms unkjiow% 

GMpb d. PromUeuow FU9$$. lil 

Halt thou through many cities stra j'd. 
Their castoia% mws, and manners weigh'dF " 

To read mankind, their la>78 and arts , 
For man u pmctis'd in disuse ; 
He cheats the most discerning eyes. 
Who by that search shall wiser grow ? 
By th\t ourselves we never know. 
l^e Dttle knovdedge I have gain'd, 
Was all from simple nature drained ; 
Hence my life's inaxims took their rise, 
Hence crew my settled hate of vice, 

4 The dauy labours of the bee, 
Awake my soul to industry. 
Who can observe the careiul ant 
And not provide for future wantf 
I My dog (the trustiest of his kiod) 
With grsditude inflames my mind : 
I mark his trui^ his faithful way, 
And, in my service, copy Tray. 
In constancy and nuptial love, 
I learn my duty from the dove. 
The hen, who From the chilly air, 
With pious wing, protects her care, 
And ev'ry fowl mat flie? at large. 
Instructs me in a parentis charge. 

9 From nature too I take my rule, 
To shun contempt and ridicule. 
I never, with important air. 
In conversation overbear. 
Can grave and formal pass for wise. 
When men the solemn owl despise ? 
My tongue within my lips I rein : 
For who talks much must talk iii vitin. 
We from the Wordy torrent fly : 
Who listens to the cbatt'ring pye ? 
Wor would I, with felonious flight. 
By stealth invade my neighbour's right 

I lUpacious animals we hate ; 

Kites, ha^s, and wolves, deserve their fata. 
Do not we just abnorrene^ find 
Against the' toad and serpent kmd ? 
But envy, calumny, and spite, 
^ear-stronger venom in their bite. 

The EngU^ik Reaehr. FtmtX. 

Thus ev'ry object of creation, 
Can furnish liints to eontera^latioii ; 
And, from the most mroute and mean, 
A virtuous mind can morals glean." 
T " Thy fame is just,** the sage replies, 
"Thy virtue proves thee truly wise. 
Pride often p;u)des the author's pen, 
Books as affected are as men : 
But he who studies nature's laws, 
From certain truth his maxims draws ; 
And those, without our schools, suffice 
To make men moral, good, and wise."-— exTi 

The rood to happiness openio all men« 

OH happiness ! our being's end and aim ! 
Good, pleasure, ease, content ! whatever thy name ; 

That something still which prompts th' eternal sigh, 

For which we bear to live, or dare to die : 

Which still so near us, yet bevond us lies ; 

O'erlook'd, seen double, by the fool and wise; 

Plant of celestial seed, ifdropt below. 

Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow ? 
t Fair opening to some court s propitious shrine, 

Or deei^ with diamonds in the flaming mine? 

Twin'd with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield. 

Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field ? 

Where grows ? where grows it not ?- if vain our toll^ 

We ought to blame the culture, not the soil. 

Fix'd to no spot is happiness sincere ; 

^Tis no where to, be round, or ev'ry where ; 

•Tis never to be bought, but always free ; 

^nd, fled from monarchs, St. John ! dwells with theo. 

Ask of the learnM the way. The learn'd are blind ; 

TMs bids to serve, and tnat to shun mankind : 

Some place the bliss in action, some in ease ; 

Those call it pleasure, and contentment these : 

Some sunk to beasts^ find pleasure end in pain ; 

SomesweH'd to gods, confess ev'n virtue vain : 

Or indolent, to each extreme they fall, 

To trust in ev'ry thing, or doubt of all. 
4 Who thus define it, say they more or lest 

Than this, that happiness is happiness ? 

Take oature^s patn, and mad opinions leave; 

AB itates caa reach it, and aH heads conceive ; 

Obvkrat hvt foods, in no extreme they dwell ; 

Chap. 6, Promitcuou*. Pieces. 23^ 

Tbent neetis but thinfcin)i; ri^^ht, and in«ianin{C «>'«D ; 
And mouni our varioUii portions as ^ve plt!aii«, 
£(jual is common sensCf and common east. 
Remember, man, ** the univfisul cause, 
Acts not by partial, but by genVal laws ;" 
And makes wbat happiness we justly call. 
Subsist not in tbe good of one, but all. rof «. 

T%f. goodness of Providence. 

TH£ Lord my pasture shall prepare, 
And feed me with a shepherd^s cara ; 
His presence shall my wants supply, 
And guard me with a watchful eye ; 
My noon-day walks he shall attend. 
And all my midnight hours defend. 

ft When in the sultry glebp I faint, 

Or on the thirsty mountains pant ; 

To fertile vales, and d«wy meads. 

My weary wand'ring steps he leads, 

W here peaceful rivers, soft and slow, 

Amid the verdant landscape flow. 
S Tlio' in the p«ths of death I tread, 

With gloomy horrors ovei-spread, 

My steadfast litjart shall fear no iil ; 

For thou, O Lord, art with roe stiil : 

Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, 

And guide me through the dreadful shade. 

A Tho' in a bare and rugj^pd way, 
Through devious lonely wilds I stray. 
Thy bounty shall my pains beguile ; 
The biirren wilderne>s8«hall smile, 
With sudden greens nnd herbage crown 'd. 
And streams Midi murmur all an)und. — aodi8UP» 

The Creator's works aStcst hisgrmtn€»s* 

THE spacious firmament on hiu;h, 
With all th« blue ethereal sky, 
« And spangled heav'ns,n shining frame, 
Their great Original proci;iim : 
Th' unwearied sun, from day to day, 
Does his Creator's pow'r display, 
And publishes to ev'ry land. 
The work of an Alm^ty hand. 

324 , Tke Engli$h Reader. Petri t 

2 Soon ai tne evening shades prevail, 
The mooa takes up the wondVous tale ; 
And, nightly, to the list'nin^ earth, 
Repeats the story of her birth ; 
Whilst all the stars that round her bum, 
And all the planets in their turn. 
Confirm the tidings as they roll, 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

8 What thoueh, in solemn silence, all 
MoT6 round the dark terrestrial ball I 
What Aio' Dor real voice nor sound. 
Amid their radiant orbs be found ! 
lx\ reason's ear they all rejoice, # 

And utter forth a glorious voice ; 
Forever singing as they shine, 
*' The hand that made us, is Divine." — addisoit. 


i An address to the Deity. 


OTHOU ! whose balance does the mountains weigh 
Whose will the wild tumultuous seas obey ; 
Whose breath can turn those watery worlds to flam*, 
That flame to tempest, and that tempest tame : 
Earth^s meanest son, all trembling, prostrate fiuls, 
And on the bounty of thy goodness calls. 

ft O ! give the winds all past offence to sweep 
To scatter wide, or bury in the deep. 
Thy pow'r, my weakness, may I ever see, 
And wholly dedicate my soul to thee. 
Reign o^er my will ; my passions ebb and flow 
At tny command, nor human motive know ! 
If anger boil, let aneer be my praise. 
And sirt the graceful mdignation raise. 
My love be warm to succour the distress'd. 
And lift the burden from the soul oppressM. 
O may my understanding ever read 
This glorious volume which thy wisdom made I 
May sea and land, and earth and hea\^n, be joio'd, 
To oriijg th' eternal Author to my mind ! 
When oceans roar, or awful thunders roll, 
May thoughts of thy dread vengeance, shake my souF 
When earth's in bloom, or planets proudly shine, 
Adore, my heart, the Majesty divine ! 

4 Grant I may ever, at tlie morning ray. 
Open with pray V the comecratra day ; 

CAflip. 6. Pramuewna Pieces. ttl 

TuD« thy great praise, and bid my lOttl ariMi 
And witn the mounting sua ascend the skies ; 
As that advances, let m j zeal improve, 
And glow with ardour of consummate lore ; 
Nor cease at eve, but with the setting sun, 
M J endless worship shall be still begun. 

5 And oh ! permit the gloom of solemn night, 
To sacred thought may forcibly invite. 
When this world's shut, and awful planets rise, 
Call on our minds, and raise them to the skies; 
Compose our souls with a less dazzling sight. 
And show all nature m a milder light ; 

How ev'ry boist'rous thought in calm subsides ; 
How the smoothed spirit into goodness glides ! 

6 Oh how divine ! to tread the milky Way, 
To the bright palace of the Lord of Day ; 
His court admire, or for his favour sue, , 

Or leagues of friendship with his saints renew ; 
Pleas'd to look down and see the worid asleep ; 
TV bile I long vigils to its Founder keep ! 

Canst thou not shake the centre ? Oh control 
Subdue by force, the rebel in my soul ; 
Thou, wno canst still the raging of the flood. 
Restrain the various tumults ofmy blood ; 
Teach me. with equal firmness, to sustain 
Alluring pleasure, and assaulting pain. 

7 O may J pant for thee in each desire ! 
And with strong faith foment the holy fire I 
Stretch out my soul in hope, and grasp the prbe^ 
Which in eternity's deep bosom lies ! 

At the great day of recompense behold, 
Devoid of fear, the fatal book unfold ! 
Then, wafted upward to the blissful seat. 
From affe to a^ my grateful song repeat $ 
My Light, myXife, my God, my Saviour see, 
Aud rival angels in the praise of thee ! — ^tounc* 


TJie pursuii of happiness often tU-dnttM, 

THC midnight moon serenely smiles 
O'er nature's soft repose ; 
No low'rin^ cloud obscures the sky, 
Nor ruflling tempest blows, 
t Now ev^ry passion sinks to rest, 
The throbbing heart lies still ; 

t26 * "ne BngKsh Reader. PmHit. 

And varying schemes of life no more 
Distract me lab'ring will. 

S In nlence hush'd to reason's Toice, 
Attends each mental pow'r : 
Come, dear Emilia, and enjoy ' 

Reflection's fav'rite hour. 

At Come, while the peaceful scene inyitesi 
Let's search this aniple ronnd ; 
Where shall the lovely fleeting fonn 
Of happiness be found ? 

5 Does it amidst the frolic mirth 

Of eay assembties dwell ; 
Or hide beneath tne solemn gloom. 
That shades the hermit's cell ? 

6 How oft the laughing brow of joy, 

A sick'ning heart cpnceals ! 
And, through the cloister's deep re«eM| 
Invading sorrow steals. 

7 In vun, through beauty, fortune, wit, 

The fugitive we trace ; 
It dwells not in the faithless smile. 
That brightens Clodia's face. 

8 Perhaps the joy to these deny'd, 

The heart in friendship flnos : 
Ah ! dear delusion, eay conceit 
Of visionary minds : 

9 However our varying notions rove, 

Tet all agree in one, 
To place itS being in some state, 
At distance from our own. 

10 O bffnd to each indulgent aim, 

Of power supremely wise, 
Who fancy happiness m aught 
The hand or Heav'n denies ! 

1 1 Vain is alike the joy we seek. 

And vain what we possess. 
Unless harmonious reason tunes 
The passions ipto peace. 

IS To temper'd wishes, iust desires, 
Is happiness confined ; 
And, deaf to folly's call, attends 
The music of the mind. — QAMmwu 

CA<ip. 6. Promiscuous Pieces. M7 


The Fire-Side. 

DEAR Chloe, while the busy crowd, 
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud, 
In folly's maze advance ; , 

Tho' sinjjularity and p»ide 
Be caird our choice, we'll step aside, 
Nor join the giddy dance. 

t From the gay world, we'll oft retire 
To our own family and fire. 

Where love our hours employs 
No noisy neighbour enters nere. 
No intermeddling stranger near, , 

To spoil our heart- felt joys. 

5 Ifsolid happiness we prize. 
Within our breast this jewel lies ; 
And they are fools who roam : 
The world has nothing to bestow ; 
From our own selves our ioys must flow. 
And that dear hut, our home. 

4 Of rest was Noah's dove bereft. 
When with impatient wing she left 

That safe retreat, the ark ; 
Giving her vain excursion o'er. 
The disappuinted bird once more 

Explored the sacred bark. 

5 Tho' fools spurn Hvmen's gentk pow'n, 
We, who improve his golden hours, 

By sweet experience know. 
That marriage rightly understood, 
Gives to the tender and the good, 

A paradise below. 

6 Our babes shall richest comfort bring ; 
If tutorM right, they'll prove a spring 

Whence pleasures ever rise : 
We'll form their minds, with ^studious 
To all that's manly, good, and" fair, 

And train them for the skies. 

7 While they our wisest hours engage, 
They'll joy our youth, support our age, 

And crown our hoary hairs : 
They'll grow in virtue ev'ry day, 
And thus our fondest lovea repay, 

Aad rtnompeiiM our caret* 

S3f Rf EngUih Reader. • 

8 No bonrowM jojt ! they're all our own, 
"Wbile to the world we lire unkoowiit 

Or hj the world forgot : 
Monarch! ! we earj not your state 
We look with pity on the great, 

And bless our oumbleriot 

• Our portion is not large, indeed! 
But then how little do we need ! 

For nature's calls are few : 
In this the art of living lies, 
To want no more than may suffiee, 

And make that little do. 

10 Well therefore relish, with content^ 
Whate'er kind Providence has seo^ 

Nor aim beyond our pow'r; 
For if our stock be very small, 
Tis prudence to enjoy it all, 

Nor lose the present hour. 

11 To be resignM, when ills betide. 
Patient when favours are denied, 

And pleasM with favours giv'n : 
Dear Cnloe, this is wisdom's part ; 
This is that incense of the heart. 

Whose fragrance smells to bear's. 

1ft We'll ask no long protracted treat, 
, 8ince winter-life is seldom sweet ; 
But when our feast is o'er. 
Grateful from table we'll arise, 
Nor grudze our sons, with envious eyes^ 
The reucs of our store. 

18 Thus, hand in hand, thro' life well go » 
Its checker'd paths of joy and wo. 

With cautious stbps, we'll tread ; 
Quit its vain scenes without a tear. 
Without a trouble or a fear. 

And mingle with the dead. 

14 While eonscience, like a faithful fHMid 
Shall thro' the gloomy vale attend. 

And che<^.r our dying breath ; 
Shall, when all other camforts eeaaa, 
lake a kind angel whisper peace. 

And aiMoeCh the bed of aMth.«-«iMrr««b 

Cldp. & ' Pri^tmteuau* Piece: 229 


, Providenct vindicaJUd in the prestrU stcOe ofma*K 

HEAVN from all creatures, liides the book of fate ; 
All but the page prescribed, th^r present state ; 
From brutes what meo^ from men what spirili know, ^ 
Or who could suffer being here below ? 
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, 
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play ? 
Pleab'd to the hist, he crops the now'ry food. 
And licks the hand just raisM to shed nis blood. 

t Oh blindness to the future ! kindly giv'n. 
That each may fiH the circle marlc'd by Hear'n ; 
Who sees with equal eye, as God of ail, 
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall ; 
Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, 
And now s( nubble burst, and now a world. 

S Hope humbly then ; with. tremWinff pinions soar; 
Wait the great teacher, Df!ath ; and God adore. 
What future bliss he gives >iot thee to know, 
But gives that hope to be tnv blessing now. 
Hope spring eternal in the numan breast: 
Man never is^ but always to be blest 
The soul, uneasy, and confined from home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 

4. Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutor'd mind 
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wirtd^ 
His soul proud science never taught to stray 
Far as the Solsjr Walk or Milkv Way. 
Yet, simple nature to his hope hns giv n. 
Behind the cloud-t!»pt hill, a humbler heavV : 
Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd, 
irv.y.p^ li:\pr>i-r iKiand in thti watr'y wnste ; 
Where slaves once more their native land hehoWU 
•No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for goU. 

• To BE, contents his natural desire ; 

He asks no angel's wing, no seraph s fire : 
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, 
Kis faithful dog shall bear him company. 

Go, wiser thon ! and in thy scale of Beam, 
Wei«h thy opinioo against Providence ; 
Call rraperCection what thou fisnciest such ; 
Say b«*e he gives too little, there toamiick.-* 

• la pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies ; 
Afl ^t their !H>ber», and mih into thie ikM* 


890 ' The EnfKih Reader. Farit 

Pride still is aiming at the bleil adodes ; 

Men would be anras, angels would be gods. 

Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell, 

Aspiring to be angels, men rebel : , 

A.nd who but wishetf to invert the laws 

Of 0RDSB9 sins against th' sternal causx. — ^popx. 


Sdfislmtss repnved. 

HAS God, thou fool ! work'd solely for thy c<Mk1» 
Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food? 
Who for my table feeds the wanton fawn,. 
For him as kindly spreads the flow*ry lawn. 
Is it for thee the larK ascends and sings ? 
Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. 
Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat F 
Loves of his own, and raptures swell the note. 

£ The bounding steed you pompously bestride. 
Shares with his lord the pleasure, and the pride. 
Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain ? 
The birds of heav*n shaU vindicate their grain. 
Thine the full harvest of the golden year ? 
Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer. 
The bog, that plougns not^ nor obeys thy call, 
Lives on the labours of this lord or all. 

5 Know, nature^s children all divide her care ; 
The fur that warms a monarcii, warm'd a bear. 
While man cftclaims, '* See all things for my use 1" 
'^See man for mine! " replies a pamper'd goose. 
And just as short of reason he must fall, 
Who thinks all made for one, not one for all. 

4 Grant that the powVful still the weak control ; 
Be man the wit and tyrant of the whole ; 
Nature that tyrant onecks : he only knows, 
And helps another creatoress wants and woes. 
Say, win the falcon, stooping from above, 
Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove ? 
Admires the jay, the insect's gilded wings? 

Or hears the hawk when Philomela sings? 

5 Man cares for all : to birds he gives hivwoods 
To beasts his pastures, and to fish his floods ; 
For some his mt'rest prompts him to provide, 
For more his pleasures, yet for more his pride. 
AH fed on one vain patron, and en}oy 

Th' extenshKbieadBg of his tocurV 

Chap. 6. iVoffit^ciiotci Pieces. 9f ) 

e That very liCe bin tearatd huDf^r cnr—, 
He savei from famiae, from the savaee uiTet : 
Nay, feasts the animaJ he dooms his feast ; 
And, till he ends the being, makes it blest : 
Which sees no more the stroke, nor feels the pain, 
Than favoured man by touch ethereal slain. 
The creature, had his feast of life Jbefore ; 
Tliou too mu^t perish, when thy feast is o'er ! — ^Fors. 


Human fraUty. 

WEAK and irresolute is man ; 
The purpose of to*dav, 
Woven wilb pains juto his plan, 
To-morrow renas away. 

. £ The bow well bent, atU^ smart the springy 
Vice seems already slam , 
But passion rudely snaps the stnng^ 
And it revives again. 

8 Some foe to his upright intent. 
Finds out his weaker part j 
Vlrtne engages his assent, 
But pleasure wins his heart. 

4 TTis here the folly of the wise, 

Thiough alt his art we view ; 
And while his tongue the charge deoieit 
His conscience owns it true. 

5 Bound on a voyage of awful length. 

And dangers little known, 

A stranger to superior strength, 

Man vainly trusts his own. 

6 But oars alone can ne'er prevail 

To reach the distant coast : 
The breath of heav'n must swell the siul| 
Oral the toil is lost — cowpxr. 

Ode to peace, 

COMt^, peace of mind, delightful guest. 
Return, and naakn thy downy nest 
Once more in this sad heart : 
Nnf riches I, nor pow'r pursue, 
Nor hold forbidden joys in view ; 
, W# U2ercf«r/3 need not part. 


1%e Ei^flUh Reader. Fan t. 

« Where wilt thou dwell, if not with in«, 
From ar'ricc atid ambition free, 

And pleasure's fatal wiles ; 
For whom, alas ! do$t thou prepare 
The sweets that 1 was wont to share^ . 

The banquet of thy smiles ? I 

S The great, the gay, shall they partake 
The neav'n that tnou alone canst make ; 

And wilt thou quit the stream. 
That murmurs through the dewy mead^ 
The grove and the sequestered shade* 

To be a guest with them ? 
4 For thee 1 panted, thee Ijpriz'ai 
For thee I gladly sacrificVi 

Whate'er I lov'd before ; 
And shall I see thee start away, 
And helpless, hopeless, hear thee lay 

Farewell, we meet no more ?— cow»»». 


Odt to adversity, 
I AUGHTER of Heav'n, relentless power, 

' Thou tamer of the hunaan breast, 

Whose iron scourge, and torturing houTji 

The bad a r ight, afflict the best ! 

Bound in thy adamantine chain. 

The proud are taught to taste of pain, 

And purple tyrants vainly ^roan 
With pangs unfelt before, unpitied' and alon»* 
t When first thy sire to send on earth 

Virtue, his darling child, design'd. 

To thee he gave the heav'nly Dirtn, 

And bade to form her infant mind. 

Stem rugged nurse ! thy rigid lore 

With patience many a year she bore. 

What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know ; 
And from her own she learn'd to melt at others 


S Scar'd at thy frown terrific, fly 
Self-pleasing folly's idle brood. 

Wild laughter, noise, and thouehtless joy. 
And leave us leisure to be good. 
Light they disperse ; and with them go 
The summer-triend, th^ flatt'ring foe. 
By Tain prosperity receivM, 
T» her they vow their truth, and V9 Hain WierM. 

Ckap. 6. PromUcnoua Piecei. 2S3 

i Wisdom, in sable garb an*ay'd, 
Immersed in raptVous thoudit profound, 
And melancholy, silnnt maia, 
With leaden eye tlrat loves the ground, 
Still on thy solemn steps uftenn ; 
Wann charity, the genTal friend, 
With justice to herself severe, 
And pity, dropping soft the sadly pleasing tear. 

6 Oh, gently, on thy suppliant's head. 
Dread power, lay thy chast ning hand ! 
Not in thy gorgon terrors clad. 
Nor circled with the vengeful band, 
fAs by the impious thou art seen,] 
With thund'ring voice, and threat ning mien. 
With screaming horror's fun'ral cry, 
f)e8pa]r,and fell disease, and gliastly p o'verty. 

6 Thy form beni^, propitious, wear. 
Thy milder influence im))art ; 
Thy philosophic train he tiiere, 
To soften, not to wound my heart. 
ThegenVous spark extinct revive ; 
Teach me to love, and to forgive ; 
Exact my own defects to scan ; 
What others are to feel ; and know myself a man. »aAT 

^Hie ereation required to praise its Author, 

>EGIN,my soul, th' exalted lay ! 
^ Let each enraptur'd thought obey. 

And praise th' Almighty^s name : 
Lo ! heaven and earth, and seas, and skies, 
In one melodious concc^rt rise, r 

To swell th' inspiring theme. 
Ye fields of Tight, celestial plains. 
Where gay transporting beauty reigns. 

Ye scenes divinely fair ! 
Your Maker's wond'rous tww'r proclaim ; 
Tell how he form'd vour shining frame, 

And breath d tne fluid air. 

Ye angels, ca^h the thrlHing sound ! 
While all th' adoring thrones around, 

His boundless mercy sing : 
Let evVe listening saint above, 
Wake aft the tuneful soul of love. 

And touch the sweetest strii^ 


214 The Engii9k Reader. Pmt S. 

4 Join, ye loud spheres, the voca] choir ; 
Thou dazzling orb of liquid fire, 

The mighty chorus aid : 
Soon as gpray ev'^ning gilds the plain, 
Thou, moon, p/rotract the melting strain, 

And praise him in the shade. 
ft Thou heav'n of heav'ns, iiis vast abode ; 
Ve clouds, proclaim your forming God, 

Who cairdyon worlds from night: 
•* Ye shades dispel !" — ^th* Eternal said ; 
At once th' involving darkness fled, 

And nature sprung to light. 

6 Whate'er a blooming world contains. 
That wings the air, that skims the plains. 

United praise bestow : 
Te dragons, sound his awful name 
To heav*n aloud ; and roar acclaim, 

Ye swelling deeps below. 

7 Let ev'ry element rejoice ; 

Ye thunders burst with awful voice, 

To HIM who bids you roll : 
His praise in softer notes declare, 
£ach whispering breeze of yielding air. 

And breathe it to the soul. 

8 To him, ye grateful cedars, bow : 
Ye tow'ring mountains, bending low, 

Your great Creator own ; 
Tell, when afRrishted nature shook, 
How Sinai kindled at his look, 

And trembled at his frown. 

9 Ye flocks that haunt the humble vale, 
Ye insects fluttering on the ^ale, 

In mutual concoum nse ; 
Crop the ^ay rose^s vermeil bloom, 
And HI aft its spoils, > sweet perfume, 

In incense to the skies. 

10 .Wake all ye mounting tribes, and sing 

Ye plumy warblers of the spring. 

Harmonious anthems raise 
To HIM who shaped your finer mould, 
Who tipp'd your giitt'ring wings with gold. 

Ana tun'd your voice to praise. 

1 1 Let manj by nobler passions sway'd. 
The feeling heart, the judging head. 

In hiAv'nly praise employ ; 

CIcqx ii« Prmmscuous Piit€$9. 3S& 

Spread his tremendous name around, 
ifiW heav'n's broad arch rings back the sound 
The gen'rsd burst of joy. 

If Te whom the charms of gnindeur please, 
Nurs'd on the downy lap of (!as(*.« 

Fall prostrate at his throne : 
Te princes, rulers, all adore. ; 
Praise him, ye kings, who makes your powV 

An image of his own. 
. S Te fair, by nature formM to move, 
O praise th' eternal source of love, 

With youth's enlivening fire : 
Letaee take up the tunefuFlay, 
Sigh his bless'a name — ^then soar away, 

And ask an angel's lyre.— ooilvie. 


The umverscd prayer, 

FATHER or all ! in ev'ry age. 
In ev'ry clime, ador'd, 
By saint, by savage, and by sage, 
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! 

£ Thou GREAT FIRST CAUSE, least unditrstoodv' 
Who all my sense confin'd 
To know but this, that Thou art good, 
And that myself am blind ; 
S Tet gave me, in this dark estate, 
To see the good from ill ; 
And binding nature fast in fate. 
Left free the human will. 
4 What conscience dictates to be done, 
Or warns me nut to do, 
This teach me more than hell to shun, 
That more than heaven pursue. 
15 What blessings thy free bounty gWes, 
Let me not cast away ; 
For God is paid, when man receiver, 
T* enjoy, is to obey. 
C Tet not to earth's contracted span. 
Thy goodness let me bound. 
Or think thee Lord alone of man, 
When thousand worlds arc round. 

7 Let not this weak, unknowiag hand, 
Presume th^ bolts to threw ; 


336 TheJEngUsh Reader. Parit. 

And aeal damnation round the land, 
On each I judge thy foe. 

8 If I am right, thy grace impart, 

Still in the right to stay ; , . 

If I am wrong, oh teach my heart 
To find that better way f 

9 Save me alike from foolish pride, 

Or impious discontent, ^ 

At aught thy wisdom has denied, 

Or aught thy goodness lent 

10 Teach me to feel another's wo ; 

To hide the fault I see: 
That mercy I to others show, 
That mei'cy show to me. 

11 Mean tho* I am, not wholly so, 

Since quicken'd by thy breath : 
O lead me wheresoever 1 go, 
Thro' this day's life or death. 

12 This day, be bread and peace my lot ; 

AU else beneath the sun, 
Thou know'st if best bestow'd or not. 
And let thy will be done. 
18 To thee, whose temple is all sp^ce, 
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies ! 
One chorus let all being;s raise ! 
All nature's incense rise. — pope. 



Otksach'aous conscience ! while she seems to 8lee]| 
On rose and myrtle, lull'd with syren song ; 

While she seems, nodding o'er her charge, to drop 

On headlong appetite the slacken'd rein, ^ 

And give us up to license, unrecall'd, 

Unmark'd ;— see, from behind her secret stand, , 

The sly informer minutes evVy fault. 

And her dread diary with horror fills. 
8 Not the gross act alone employs her pen ; 

She reconnoitres fancy's airy oand, 

A watchful fpc; ! the formidable spy, 

Lisfning o'erhearsthe whispers oTour camp ; 

Our dawning purposes of heart explores. 

And steals our embryos of iniquity. 
S As all rapacious usurers conceal 

Their doomsday-book from all-eoniitming heb«i 

Chap. 6. FroMMcifoict Pieoesi 9i7 

^ Thuf, with indulgeiioe most s6T«re, 9ho trMti 
Us speDdtiirifts of inestimable time ; ' 

Unnoted, notM eaeh moment misappW'i ; 
In leaved more durable than leaves of brass, 
Writes our whole history ; which death shall read 
In ev'ry pale delinquent s private ear ; 
And judgment publish ; publish to more worlds 
Than this ; and endless age in groans res6uud.-^r9VK«» 


On a7i infant. 

TO the dark and silent tomb, 
Soon 1 hastened from the womb 
Scarce the dawn of life began. 
Ere I measur'd out my span. 

ft I no smiling pleasures'knew ; 

1 no gay delights 6ouid view ;, 

Joyless sojourner was I, 

Only born to weep and die, — 
d Happy infant, early bless'd ! 

Rerrti in peaceful slumber, rest ; 

Early rescu'd from the cares. 

Which increase with growmg yean. 

4 No delights are worth thy stay. 
Smiling, as they seem, and ^ay ; 
Sliort and sickly are they all, 
Hardly tastedere they pall. 

5 All our eaiety is vain," 

All our laughter is but pain, 
Lasting only, and divine. 
Is an innocence like thine. 


7%e Ouckoo.' 

HAIL, beauteous stranger of the W0o4, 
Attendant on the spring ! 
Now heav'n repairs thy rural seat, 
And woods thy welcome sing, 
ft Soon as the daisy decks the green. 
Thy certain voice we hear: 
Hast thou a star to guide thy patli. 
Or mark the rolling year ? 
i Delightful visitant ! with thee 
T hail the time of flow'rs, - 

Ml Tl^ Aiikk Reader POrit. 

Vrner hmw*n ii tJ&^d mrith minle twe^C 
Of birds among the bf>w*n. 

4 The school-boy, wand'riag in the WfK>4 

To pull the now'rs so gay, 
Starts, thy curious voice to hear, 
Ana imitates thy lay. 

f Soon as the pea puts on the biootn, 
Thou flv'stthe vocal vale. 
An annual guest, in other lands. 
Another spring to hail. 

• Sweet bird ! thy bow'r is ever greea^ 

Thy sky is ever clear ; 
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, 
No winter in thy year ! • 

7 O could I fly, rd fly with thee ; 
We*d make, with social wing. 
Our annual y'la^ o'er the ^lobe, i^ 

Companions of the spnng. — hOUMh fj^y^^^--*^ 

Da^^. A paMmnd in thrupari§m 


IN the bsra the tenant cock. 
Close to Partlet perch'don high,^ 
Briskly crows (the shepherd's dock ! ^ 
Jocund that the morning's nigh. 

t Swiftly, from the moonlain's brow, 
Shadows, nurs*d byfight, retire ; ' 
And the peeping sun-oeam, now^ 
Paints witn gold the village spire. 

5 Philomel forsakes the thorn, 

Plaintive where she prates at night, 
And the lark to meet the mom. 
Soars beyond the shepherd's sight 

4 From the low-rooFd cottage rid^e, 

See the chatt'ring swallow spnn^. 
Darting through the one-arch'd bridg% 
Quick she dips her dappled wing. 

5 Now the pine-tree's waving top, 

Oently greets the morning gale, 
KidHngs, now^. becin to crop 
Daises, on the ofewy dale. 

• From the balmy sweets, uncbyd, 

(Resfless till her task be doiie> 

Now the biwy bee's emplo j'd, 
Sipping dew before the sun. 

7 TriclcKng through the creviced rock, 
Where the limpid stream distils, 
Sweet refreshment waits the flock^ 
When 'tis sim-drore from tb« biUi. 
t Cblin's for the promis'd corn, 

(Ere the harvest hopes are ripe,) 
Anxious ; — whilst the nuntsmAn's horr^ 
Boldly sounding, drowns his pipe. 

9 Sweet -O sweet, the warbling throrig^ 
On the white ^mblossom'd spraj 
l^ature*8 universal song, 
Echoes to the rising day^ . 


10 Fervid on the glitt'ring flood, 

Now the noontide radinnee glows : ' 
Drooping o'fer its infant bud. 
Not a dew-ri|op's left the rose. 

1 1 By the brook the shejiherd dines, " 

From the fierce meridian heat, 
Skhdter'd by the branching pines. 
Pendant o'er his grassy seat 
It Now the flock forsakes the glade. 

Where, uncbeck'd, the sun-beiuns M^ 
Sure to And a pleasing shade ' 
By the ivy'd abbey wall. 

13 Echo, in her airy round. 

O'er the river, rock, and hill. 
Cannot catch a single sound. 
Save the clack of yonder mill. 

14 Cattle court the zephyrs bland. 

Where the streamlet wanders cool 
Or with languid sileoce stand 
Midway in the marshy pool. 

15 But from mountain, dell, or streamy 

Not a fluttVing zephyr springs ; 
Fearful, lest the noontide beam 

Scorch its soft, its silkeo wings.. - » 

16 Not a leaf has leave to stir; \- - 

Nature's hiH'd — serene — and stfll: 
<^ete'eo the shepherd's cor. 
Sleepiiig on the heath-clad hill. 

340 Tk€ EugUik Rdtubr. Barft* 

17 Ltngniid is the landscape round. 

Till the fresh descending showVy 
€hrateful to the thirsty groundi 
Raises er^ry fainting flow'r. 

18 Now the hi]l--the hedee — are sreeB» 

Now the warblers* throats in tune 
Blithsome Is the Terdant scene, 
BrightfloM hy the beams of Noon ! 


9 O'cR the heath the heifer strays 
Free ; (the furrowM task is done ;) 
Now the Tillage windows biasse, 
Bumish*d by the setting sun, 

to Now he sets behind the hill. 
Sinking from a golden skr: 
Can the penciPs mimi<? skili. 
Copy the refulgent aye ? 
f 1 Trudging as the ploughmen go, 
(To the smoking bunlet bound,) 
Oiant-like their shadows grow, 
Lengthen'd o'er the lerel ground. 

ft Where the rising forest spreads 
Shelter for the lordly aome I 
To their high-built airy beds. 
See the rooks returning home ! 

tS As the lark, with vary ^d tune, 
Carols to the ev'ning loud ; 
Mark ths mild resplendent moon, 
Breaking througn a parted doud. 

ti Now the hermit owlet peeps. 

From the oarn or twisted brake ; 
And the blue mist slow I v creeps* 
Curling on the silver fake. 

tft As the trout in speckled pride. 
Playful from Its bosom springs ; 
To the banks a ruiEed tide. 
Verges in successive ringsk 

tt Tapping through the silken graaiy 
er me path-divided dale, 
Mark the rose-complexioa'd lass, 
With her weA»pois'd milking pafl 
tr Liaaets with unnimiber'd notesi 
And Ibi cyokoo bird with tw% 

• 0. PramUcuoua Ptte^ S4t 

Tuning tirtet their tn^Uow throatti 
Bid the setting sun adieu. — Cuj(jri]r«ii:Aii» 

The order of nature. 

SEE, thro' this air, this ocean, and this earthy 
All matter quick, and bursting ioto birth. 
Above, how high progressive life may go ! 
Around, how wide ! how deep extendoelow ; 
Vast chain of being ! which from God began. 
Nature ethereal, human ; angel^ man ; 
Beast, bird, ilflh, insect, what no eye can see. 
No glass can reach ; from infinite to thee, 
From thee to notbing.^-On superior pow'r* 
"Were we to press, inferior might on ours ; 
Or in the full creation leave a void, 
Where, one step broken, the great scale's Aeittty^ 
From nature's chain whatever link you strike, 
Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the ch^ aUk«. 

And, if each STstem in gradation roll, 

Alike essential to the amazing whole. 

The least confusion but in one, not all 

That system only, but the whole must falL 

Let earth, unbalanc'd from her orbit fly, 

Planets and suns run lawless thro' the sky f 

Let ruling angels from their spheres be hivl'c^ 

Being on oeing wreck'd^ and world on world \ 

Heaven's whole foundations to their centre nodf 

And nature trembles to the throne of God. 

All this dread o&dsr break«-^for whom ? forthM? 

Vile worm! Oh madness I pride J impiety! 

What if the fbot ordain'd the dust to tread. 

Or hand, to toil, aspir'd to be the head .' 

What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd 

To serve mere engines to the ruling mind? 

Just as absurd for anj part to claim 

To be another, in this gen'ral frame : 

Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or painti 

The great directing mind or ajll ordams. 

All are but parts of on« stupendous whol«^ 

Whose body nature is, and God the soul : 

That, chang'd thro', all, and yet in aD tha saoM^ 

f Ireat in the earth, as in th' ethereal fraoM ^ 

Warms Ut the fltti^ mfreshes in the bre^Bt, 

•k> ws in tiM starsi am} Wgmnmop in ikm tir<Mt s 

3tf 21U £ii^2t»A AeaHer. Port ft 

Tires thro' all life, txtends thro' all extent^ 
Spnads Qodividea, operates unspent ; 
Breathes in our soiu, informs our mortal part, 
As fill!, as perfect^ in a hair as heart ; 
As fiiU, as perfect in vile man that mourns, 
As the rapt serapn that adores and bums : 
To him no high, no low, no great, no small: 
He fills, he bounds, connects, ana equals all. 

ft Cease then, nor ordek imperfection name ; 
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame* 
Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree 
Of blindness, weakness, Heav'n bestows on tbee. 
Submit^o this, or any other sphere. 
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear : 
Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow'r, 
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. 
All natufe is but art, unknown to thee ; 
All chanee, direction, which thou canst not see ; 
All discora, harmony not understood ; 
All partial evU. universal ^ood ; 
kxkif spite of Pride, in erring; Reason's spite. 
One truth is clear — whatever is, is right. — ^Popk. 


Confidence in Divine protection, 

OW are thy servants blest, O Xiord 1 
= How sure is their defence ! 
Eternal wisdom is their guide, 
Thehr help Omnipotence. 
t- In foreign realms, and lands remote. 
Supported by thy care, 
Through burning dimes I [)ass'd unhurt, . 

Ana breath'dm tainted air. I 

• Thr mercy sweetcn'dev'ryswl. 
Made ev'ry region please ; 
The hoary Alpine hills it warm'd, 
And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas. 

4 Think, O mr soul, devoutiy ti^k, 
How, witn affrighted eyes, 
Thou saw'st the wide extended* deep 
In all its horrors rise ! 
9 Confusion dwelt in er'ry fee^ 
And iherin ev^ry heart, 
Wbeni^ivtre en wates, and golft ia guU^ 



Okmp. 6. Prtmincuom Pieces 345 

d Yet then, flrom aR my eriefr, O Lord ! 
Thy mercy set me free ; 
While in the confidence of pray 'r. 
My soul took hold on thee. 

7 For dio' in dreadful whirls we hung 

High on the broken wave, 
I knew thou wert not slow to hear, 
Nor impotent to save. 

8 The stOrm was laid, the winds retir'd, 

The sea that roard at thy command. 
At thy command was sdll. 

9 In mid«t of dangers, fears, and deaths, ' 

Thy goodness PII adore ; 
And praise thee for thy mercies past, 
And humbly hope for more. 

10 My life, if thou preserve my life, 

Thy sacrifice shall be ; 
And death, if death must be my doom, 
Shall join my soul to thee. — ^Abdisoic. 

Ifynn on a review qf iheseasons. 

THESE, as they change, Abxuirhty Father ! theM 
Are but the varied Qod. The rolling year 
Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing spring 
Thy beauty walks. Thy tenderness and love. 
.Wide flush thti fields ; the soft'ning air is balm ; 
Echo the mountains round ; tiie forest smiles, 
Andev'ry sense, and ev'ry heart is joy. 

t Then comes Thy glory in the summer months, 
With light and heat refulgent. Then Thy sun 
Shoots flill perfection throogh the swelling vear; 
And oft Thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; 
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve. 
By brooks and groves, Jn hollo w-whispVing gales 

S Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfin'd^ 
And spreads a common feast for all that lives. 
In winter, awful Thou ! with clouds and storms 
Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd 
Maiesti'c darkness ! On the whirlwind^s wing, 
Riding sublime. Thou bidst the world adore ; 
And humblest nature with Thy northern blast 

4 Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine, 
Deep felt, in these appear ! a simple train, 

%U The EnrUnk Reader. Vatri 3. 

Tet so defightful mi^c'd, with such kind ut 
Such beau^ and beneficence combinM , 
Shade, unperceiv'd, so sofl'nin^ into shade, 
And ail so forming an harmonious whole. 
That as they still succeed, they ravish still. 

9 But wandYing oft, with brute unconscious gase, 
Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty hand* 
That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; 
Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, thence 
The fair profusion that overspreads the spni^ ; 
Flinss from the sun direct the flaming day ; 
Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempest forth ; 
And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, ' 
With transport touches all tiie springs of life. 

6 Nature, attend ! join ev'ry living soul, 
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, 
In adoration join ! and, srdent raise 
One eenend song I 

Te, chief, for whom the whole creation smOe^ 
At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all^ 
Crown the great hymn ! 

T For me, when I forget the darling theme. 
Whether the blossogi blows ; the summer ray 
Russets the plain ; inspiring autumn gleams ; 
Or wmter rises in the blaclrning east ; 
Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more^ 
And, dead to Joy, forget my heart to beat ! 

ft Should fate command me to the farthest verge 
Of the green earth, to distant bnrhVoiis dimes. 
Rivers unknown to song ; where fii-st the sun 
Gilds Indian mountains^ or his setting beam 
Flames on th' Atlantic isles ; 'tis nought to me ; 
Since God is ever present, ever felt. 
In the void waste as in the city full ; 
And where he vital breathes there must be joy. 

f When e'en at last the solemn hour shall come, 
And wipg my mystic flight to future worlds, 
I cheertuT will obey ; there, with new pow'rs, 
Will rising wonders sing : 1 cannot go 
Where UNivfeasAL love not smiles around. 
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns \ 
From seeming evil still educing good. 
And better thence again, and better stiOi 
Id infinite prograsiioo* But I lose 


Chap. 6. FromiituauM Pieee$. |4f 

Myselfin RtM, In light ioelTabk ! 

^ then, expmmofe silence^ muse hk praise* 



On MolUude, 

SOLITUDE, romantiG maid ! 

Whether by nodding towers you tread, 
Or haunt the desert's traclsless gloom, 
Or hover o'er the yawning tomb. 
Or climb the Andes' clifted side, 
Or by the Nile's coy source abide. 
Or, starting from your half-year's sleep. 
From Hecia view the thawing deep, 
Or, at the purple dawn of day, 
Tadmor's marble waste survey ; 

You, recluse, again I woo. 

And again your steps pursue* 

Plum'd conceit himself surveying, 
Folly with her^hadow playing, 
Purse-proud eJi'3wine insolence, 
Bloated empiric, puff'd pretence, 
Noise that throush a trumpet speaks. 
Laughter in loud Deals that breaks, 
Intrusion, with a fopling's &tce, 
(Ignorant of time and place,) 
Sparks of fire dissension blowing. 
Ductile, court-bred flattery bowing, 
Restraint's stiff neck, grimace's leer, 
Squint-ey'd censure's artful sneer, 
Ambition's buskins, steep'd in blood. 
Fly thy presence, Solitude ! 
Sage reflection, bent with years, 
Conscious virtue, void of fears, 
Muffled silence, wood-nymph shy, 
Meditation's piercing eye, 
Halcyon peace on moss reclin'd. 
Retrospect that scans the mind, 
Rapt earth-gazing revery, 
Blushing artless modesty, 
Health tnut snuffs the murniqg aur, 
FuU-ey'd truth with bosom bare, 
Inspiration, nature's child, 
Seek the solitary wild. 

IV hen all nature's husb'd&sleep. 
Nor love, nor guilt, their vigjb keop. 

$4A TkeEngHsklUader. Pmrtt. 

Soft yon leave your cavern'd den, 
And wander orer the works of men ; 
But when Phosphor brines the dawn. 
By her dappled coursei? arafm, 
Again you to your wild retrejit, 
And the early huntsman meet, 
Where, as you pensive pass along, 
Tou catch the distant shepherd's song, ^ 

* Or bru!^ from herbs the pearly dew, 
Or the risnng primrose view, 
Devotion lends her heav'n plum'd wingi. 
You mount, and nature with you sings. 

ft But when the mid-day fervours glow, 
To upland airy shades you go, 
Where never sun-burnt woodman came, 
Nor sportsman chas'd the timid game : 
And there, beneath an oak reclined. 
With drowsy waterfalls behind, 
You sink to rest, 
Till the tuneful bird of night. 
From the neighb'ring poplar's height, 
Wake you with her solemn strain, 
And tea£h pleas'decho to complain. 

• With you roses brighter bloom. 
Sweeter eY^xy sweet perfume; 
Purer ev'ry fountain flows. 
Stronger evW wilding grows. 
Let those toil for gold who please. 
Or for fame renounce their ease. 
What is fame ? An empty bubble ? 
Gold ? A shining, constant trouble. 
Let them for their country bleed ! 
What was Sidney's, Raleigh's meed f 
Man's not worth a moment's pain ; 
Base, ungrateful, fickle, vain. 

7 Then let me, sequester'd fair, 
To your sybil grot repair ; 
On yon hanging cliflTit stands, 
Scoop'd by nature's plastic hands, 
Bosom'd in the gloomy shade 
Of cypress not with age decay'd f 
Where the owl still hooting sitii 
Where the bat incessant flits ; 
Theremin loftier strains HI sing 
Wlieiiee iKe fhansiDg eeaiODS mini ; 

. 6. Ft 9m i§€m mi 9 Afow. Nf 

IVIl how itormt deform the ekkM, 
r/ hence the waves lubside and riae» 
Trace the comet's blazing tail, 
Welch the planets in a scale ; f 

Bend, great God, before th v shrine ; 
The bouroless macrocosm's tiune« 

S Since in each scheme of life I've fairdf 
And disappointment seems entail'd ; 
Since all on earth I vaiuM most, 
Mj guide, my stay, my friend is lost ; 
O Solitude, now give me rest. 
And hush the tempest in my breast 

gently deign to guide my feet 
To your hermit-trodden seat ; 
Where I may live at last my own, 
Where I at last may die unknown. 

1 spoke ; she tum'a her magic ray ; 
And thus she said, or seem^i to say ; 

Touth, you're mistaken, if you think to find 
In shades, a med'cine for a troubled mind : 
Wan i^rief will haunt you iiAeresoe er you ge^ 
Sigh m the breeze, and in the streamlet flow. 
There pale inaction pines his life away ; 
And satiate mourns the quick return of day : 
There, naked frenzy laughing wild with pain, 
Or bares the blade, or plunges in the main : 
There superstition broods o'er all her fears, 
And yells of demons in the zephyr heart. 
But if a hermit you're resolv'd to dwell. 
And bid to social life a last farewell ; 
'TIS impious. 

God never made an independent man ; 
Twould jar the concord of his general plan. 
See every part of that stupendous whole. 
** Whose body nature is, and God the soul ;" 
To one great end, the genera] good, conspire. 
From matter, brute, to man, to seraph, fire. 
Should man throuj^h nature solitary roam. 
His will his sovereign, every where his home, 
What force would guard him from the lion's jaw f 
What swiftness wing him from the panther's paw ? 
Or. should fate lead him to some safer shore, 
Wnere panthers never prowl, nor lions roar, 
Where fiberal nature all her charms bestow*, 
fhiDs shiiM^ bfrdi and Oaw^n bioooi« and wakv flow* i 

24S The English Reader. Vart^Q.. 

Fool, dust thou tbink he'd revel on the store, 

A}>solve the care of Heav'n, nor ask for more ? 

Thougli waters flow'd,flow'rs blootn'd,and Pho»bi]s shone. 

He'd sigh, he'd murmur, that he was alone. 

For know, the Maker on the human breast, 

A sense of kindred, country, man, impreas'd. 
11 Though nature's works the ruling mind declare, 

And well deserve inquiry's serious care, 

The'God,(whate'er misanthropy may say,) 

Shines, beams in man with most unclouded ray; 

What boots it thee to fly from pole to pole ? 

Hang o'er the sun, and with the planets roll ? 

What boots through space's furthest bourns to roam? 

If thou, O man, a stranger art at home. 

Then know thvsel!^ the human mind survey ; 

The use, the pleasure, will the toil repay. 
IS Nor study only, practice what you know ; 

Your life, your knowledge, to mankind you oive. 

With Plato's olive wreath the bays entwine ; 

Those who in study, should in practice shine. 

Say, does the learnea lord of Hagley's shade. 

Charm man so much by mossy fountains laid. 

As when arous'd, he stems corruption's course. 

And shakes the senate with a Tully's force ? * 

When freedom gasp'd beneath a Caesar's feet, 

Then public virtue might to shades retreat : 

But where she breathes,' the least may useful be, 

And freedom, Britain, still belongs to thee. 

13 Though man's ungrateful, or though fortune frown ; 
Is the reward of worth a son^, or crown ? 

Nor yet unrecompens'd are virtue's pains : 
Good Allen lives, and bounteous Brunswick reigns. 
On each condition disappointments wait. 
Enter the hut, and force the guarded gate. 
Nor dare repine, though earljr friendship bleed. 
From love, the world, and all its cares, he's freed. 
But know, adversity's the child of God : 
Whom Heaven approves of most, must feei her rod. 
When smooth old Ocean, and each storm's asleep 
Then ignorance may plouehthe watery deep ; 
But when the demons of the tempest rave, 
Skill must conduct the vessel through the wave. 

14 Sidney, what good man envies not ihv blow ? 
Who would not wish Anytus*— -for a me ? 
Intrepid vtrtue triumphs over &te ; 

* Om «f tiM meotticn of SoeratM. 


Tbo ?ood can nerer be unfortunate. 
And be this maxim graven in thy mind ; 
The heigtit of virtue is, to serve mankind. 
But when old age has ^Iver'd o'er thy head. 
When memory fails, and all thy vigour's flea, 
Then mayst thou seek the stillness of retipat, 
Then hear aloof the human tempest beat ; 
Then will I greet thee to my woodland cav«, 
▲Day tbfli pangs of age, and smooth thy grav«. 





Mthel Stntenns and Paragreipkt^ • . tf 

Iforrathe Piatu. 

1. ]C» nmk «r yoMMtiont nn iMkc the fuillf nlad hapff . M 

S. Chance of •zMrmleon<lit><»"^^n ad vers* to virttt* ..;•'• li 

■HIaiiiAn } or the misei^ of prkto SA 

4. Lady Jane Grey ti 

& Onx>fruUortbe taidtyofriefaaf ••.•••If 

5. Tho biUoftdence , % » ; • 

T. Thajoorney ofadajr*, aptctoraoflianian Mr ..•*••• 41 

Didmttie Pi€ee$, 

BttL l.Tbtlmportaaee of a good education .....•••••• A 

X Onfratitcde • • • • 4f 

S. On forgiveneat' ...•4S 

4 Motives to tlie practice of g<entleiieM ..... • • • • 49 

• & A sttspieiooi temper the source of misery to hs pa w i n oir • • JO 

Ik Comforts of religioo jl 

T. IMSidenceofoarabiVtIesainarli ofwisdom ..... it 

• 8i On the importance of order in the distribution of aartiiaii • • . Jt 
8k The dignity- of virtue amidst corrupt examples it 

10. The mortifications of vice greater tlian those of virtu* , , • • H 

11. On contentment • • m Sf 

12. Kanli and riches afford no ground for envy 01^ 

IS. Patience under provocations our interest as wall as dulj • • • 91 

14. Moderation in our wishes recommended !§. 

li, Ouinisrtence and omnipresence of th* I>ei1y, the loorca af 

aonsoiation to good men ...• ..M 

Argvumdative JPitsssu 

flem. 1. Rapplnass tsfbuBdedlDractitadaofooadaat ...,•••• 9 

f: Virtue and piety man's highest interest H 

Sl Tke^^naUae if m anelMN^taUa sphric ..«••.• 


1 Th* mWbrtuMttl bms aiMtlf elMrfMblt on thMuelTM • . ' . 70 

& Qa dlsintOTrnted fricndsUp . '. 73 

er Oa tiM taoMndUj of the soul 75 

Dttariptivt PUeu. 

1. Tho leatOM 7S 

% The cataFMt of Niafwra, in Candft, Kortk Amarkm. 79 

& The grwto of Aatiparos 90 

4. ThonottoofAntiporotcontloued v « . 81 

<. EartfiqiMlwttCatanea 82 

8. Creation ^ 83 

V. Cbarity 8S 

8. Proeperily le redoubled to a food maa 84 

ft. Oa the beauties of the Psalms 85 

10. Character of Alfred, kin«r of England 86 

11. Character of Queea Eliiabeth ^ . VT 

IS. The ilaTery of vi^e ) . • ^ • 89 

19. The n&n of Inte&Titj »90 

14. Gentlenoit '91 

Patketic Pi*ee$» 

1. TrlalandazecationoftheEari of Straflbrd 88 

3k An eminent hnstanee of traefortftnde of mind ...••.. M 

5. The good man*k comCwrt in aflliftion 95 

4. The close of life W 

& Exalted society, and the renewal of Yirtooas coaucxions, 

two sources of futonr fhllcitjr M 

6. The clenwncjr and amiable charaeter of tho palriareh J m i yh . 89 

7. Altamont * •••lOl 


I. Demoerftw and HeraeUtut •-108 

£ Dion jslas.Pvtblas, and Oamoa • lOft 

8: Cocko and Dayle lOT 

P^lUlc Speteke$» 

feet. f. Cleero atafaist Verres IIS 

8: Spehch of Adherbal to the Roman Semite, faniriorinf . 

their protection against Jngurtiia ....•>.« ^ • 115 
R The Apostle Paul's noole defence before Fettus and Agrippa • lit 
4. Lord MansOeld's speech in the House of Lords, 1770, on the oil! 
^ for preTontlng the delays of Justiee, Itj claiming the pitvi* 

lege of parliaroeat 190 

& An aoaress to young persons 194 


Promuatmu FUett. 

tael. 1. Earthquake at Calabria^ In the year 16SS . ...... in 

8. Letter from Pliny to Oerminlus 110 

8. Letter from Pliny to Blarcelllaus, on the death of an aaiiablii 

young woman ISl 

4. Ob Disemlon 188 

A On thegoTemmeiitofoortbonghts 184 

«. On the evils which flow from nuresirainadpamidns lao 

Y. On the proper state of our temper with respect to one moaar • 187 

J> BxMlienee of the HolT Scriptures 188 

R ReflectfoOT occasioned by areriew of the blessings, proaouaeed 

kg Christ on his disciples, la his sermon on tfie aomic ... 148 

. . CONTENTS % a 


10. ScIieniM of life ofteo illiuory, . • . , .,. • . „ '!.>tl4l 

1 1. The plensures of vinuous seiisibUity, . *.,•«««'•• .148 

12. On the true honoar of ihiin, • • > . 146 

IS. The influence of devotion on the bappiiyess of life, . * . ; • 14i 

14. Tbe planetary and terrestrial worlds oomparatlTefy eooddertd, . S48 

15. On tbe power of eostom, and tbe uses to wbich It may be HfijntA^ itO 

16. The ploasares resulting ifron a proper use of our fiwuMes, . • • IM 

17. Description of candour, , , ^ lA 

18. On the imperfection of tbat bappteesi wblch rests sole^jr 9U 

worldly pleasures, .'IM 

18. What are the real and solid enjoyments of faumaB life, > • • •167 
30. Scale of lieings, IM 

21. Trust in tbe care of Providence recommended, 161 

22. Piety and gratitude eoliren prosperity, Iflt 

23. Virtue, when deeply rooted, is not su^|eet to the inilueDee of 

fortune, 164 

24. The Speech of Fabricins, a Romui ambassador, to king jFyrrinis, 166 

3o. Uliaracter of James I. king of England, i • 166 

36. Cliarles V. emperor of Germany, resigns his dominions, wsd 

retires from tbe world, • > • • f6T 

9f7 The saiue sul^ect continued, ... Ifl 

PART n. 


Sect. U Short and easy sentences, . ■ ITS 

2. Verses in wbich tbe lines are of different length, 174 

3. Verses containing exclamations, Interrogations, and parentb«ie«| ITjL 

4. Verses in various forms, iTr 

5. Venes in which sound corresponds to sigoification, . . .^. . . ill 

6. Paragrapbs of greater length, .......... ^ ,. 110 

I Ifarrat i vt Pketu 
Sect. 1. Tbe bear and tbe beoL Itt 

2. The nightingale and the glow-worm, .......... 166 

3. Tbe trSils of virtue, 164 

4. The youth and the ph:lp5opber, . .166 

A. Discourse between Adam and Eve, retiring to rest, . . « . t 167 
6. Religion and denth, 16t 


Didaetic Piemr,' 

1. The vani^r of wealth, I6I 

5. Nothing formed In vain, lH 

5. On pride, ^ .181 

4. Cruelty to brutes censured, ..*• 166 

6. A paraphrase on die latter part of the 6th chapter 
of Matth<tw, . 164 

6. The death of a good man a strong inovrtiveto 

▼irtue, ^ . 166 

7» Reiecdoitt on • faUffe itete, fibm a reHew of 

winter, ^ . 166 

6. Ad eais ed vice to Eye^ to avoid teftatiai^ 166 

& On procrartnatioe, # 166 

a Thai philoeo^, wUeh stops «t seeoadaiy cnMes, 


IL lidiflpMMt ■■■tiMtaii on ^atioaaI prtjodtan aad bafr«4l ; 

and oa ilafwr, . in 


'Dttcriptive Pieces. \ 

4t* . 1. Tks aioniiiig: In summer, .. 900 
^3> Rfiralfoiimlc, u wcUm /unl8iriita,dcUehtM, ... . . 201 
a. The ro9e, M 

4. Careofbirdtfor theiryovM, . . . .207 

. 6, Liberty. ai^U slaveiy 9potraiKMl, .... . ... 208 

9» Cliarity. A pajra|>lirB8e on (a« 13th dmpter of tfie 

First Epistle to tlie Gorixithians, . 204 

. 7. Picture o(a good man, .. 205 

t. Tlie plfasures of retirement, 207 

% The pleasure and benefit of ao improfed and well- 

cQrtcted imagination, .... 

Pathetio pieces. 

1. The hermit, 

2. The beg^|^r*s petition, 211 

5. Unhappy close of life, 213 

4 K\etry u> pity, ^ . . 212 

k Verses supposed to be written by Alexander 8elkirl(, 

during his solltaiy aoode in the Island of Juan 

Femandea^ . 2IS 

t. Oratitode, 214 

% A man perishing in tlte snow; from whence Mfle*> 

tions are raised on the miseries of I il^ 218 

%. A nMraing hymOf % 217 

P rm m i sonu n tt JIm«m. 

1. Ode to ao-tleiit, . 21^ 

2. l^fhepherd andthe phflosophea, 220 

S. Ine road ib happiness open to all men, 2S2 

'4. The gcMMfnesc or PioTidenea, 231 

A The OreoCor^ wovhs aiteet Ms gfeatneas, . 2tt 

t, Acidvess to the Deltt^ 281 

7. The mursiilt of happlnees often ill d iw asta d , '. ^ 

8. The are-skie, . . SV 

9l Prorldence vindtealcd Id the paesa nt stale oCman, . ^ . . . 20 

Id. Sielfishness fepeoved, 290 

11. Human ftailtjv •'• • ^ 

12. Ode to pea^, ..... Si 

lA OrJe lo adversity, 251 

14. The Grntffon mqateed to paake ids Author 238 

lA The uawepsalpiNijiei^ ^ 

18. CoDseienee, «... 2S8 

Wl. Oa aa infint, . ' 2SV 

!•. The euclioo, 987 

lA l>ay.- A piuitomi in thf««paKa, 881 

fiO^ The order of nature, .941 

tJ. Oonfidenea fti Divine pwteetlDn, 242 

ssrsisi**'**''*'*^**''**^ • • • jf 

-, t 

/'V , -^ 
r ; ; /;; 


♦ I